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I 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


In  Africa,  Asia  and  Europe 


BY 

Gulian  Lansing  Morrill 


ILLUSTRATED 


MINNEAPOLIS 

1902 


Copyright,  1902, 
By  G.  L.  Morrill 


MINNESOTA  BLANK  BOOK  CO. 
MINNEAPOLIS 


To  My  Mother 





THE  WANDERINGS  OF  THE  TENDERFOOT. 


FOREWORD. 


I have  been  told  that  the  gulls  which  follow 
ships  as  they  cross  the  Atlantic  are  the  ghosts 
of  travelers  doomed  to  expiate  the  innumerable 
lies  which  they  have  told  on  their  return  home. 
“Haec  fabula  docet.”  But  Eli  not  preach  and 
this  moral  has  no  story.  If  this  book  is  as  prosy 
as  a sermon  the  reader  is  at  liberty  to  do  as  he 
did  when  I occupied  the  pulpit — nod  with  Homer 
and  wake  up  with  the  benediction — after  the  col- 
lection. 


Minneapolis,  May  1902. 


G.  L.  M. 


LIST  OF  ORIGINAL  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Portrait  Frontispiece. 

The  Wanderings  of  the  Tenderfoot  (Map) . 4 

Funchal  Cathedral 16 

Street  Scene  in  Algiers 32 

Listening  to  the  Sphinx 48 

Climbing  Cheops 64 

Crossing  the  Jordan 80 

The  Author  in  Oriental  Garb 96 

Shechem  and  Mount  Ebal 112 

Ruins  at  Ephesus 128 

Tower  of  Constantine 144 

Reading  Paul’s  Sermon  on  Mars  Hill 160 

Theatre  of  Bacchus 176 

Feeding  Pigeons  at  St.  Marks 192 

Landau  Harbor,  Switzerland 224 

Holland  Windmills 256 

French  Peasant  Girl.  . . 288 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  On  Shipboard n 

II.  Madeira  18 

III.  A Day  at  Gibraltar 29 

IV.  Algiers — The  Beautiful 35 

V.  Quaint  Old  Malta 42 

VI.  In  Hoary  Old  Egypt 49 

VII.  Rambling  in  Egypt 64 

VIII.  The  Holy  City 83 

IX.  Scenes  in  Samaria 96 

X.  Galilee  and  Its  Sacred  Reminiscence.  . 114 

XI.  Three  Cities  of  the  Orient 126 

XII.  In  the  Sultan’s  City 136 

XIII.  Greece  and  Mars  Hill 1 5 1 

XIV.  Naples  and  Vesuvius 168 

XV.  The  Eternal  City 176 

XVI.  In  Wonderful  Florence 192 

XVII.  Pisa,  Genoa  and  Milan 202 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 


XVIII.  Venice — The  White  Phantomed  City.  21 1 

XIX.  Granite  Masterpieces  of  Switzerland.  220 

XX.  Famed  Cities  of  Germany 234 

XXI.  Leipzig,  Frankfort,  The  Rhine 248 

XXII.  The  Lowlands — Holland  and  Belgium  258 

XXIII.  From  Nice  to  Monaco 271 

XXIV.  Paris  and  the  Parisians 278 

XXV.  The  Last  of  France 285 

XXVI.  London  and  Its  Sights 304 

XXVII.  Historic  Spots  of  England 318 

XXVIII.  Good  Old  Yankeeland 327 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON  SHIPBOARD 

Our  ship  was  like  a chained  leviathan  panting 
to  be  free  in  the  sea  for  which  she  was  made. 
Hundreds  of  friends  of  passengers  came  to  say 
“Bon  voyage.”  One  woman  in  particular  of  star- 
board length  and  portly  width  remarked,  “How 
I hate  a crowd,”  and  proceeded  to  prove  it  by 
shipping  herself  between  me  and  the  foregang- 
way. Later  she  was  the  “Girl  I left  behind  me.” 
It  was  a cold,  raw  morning.  The  decks  were 
crowded.  “All  visitors  ashore”  at  last  rang  out 
on  the  frosty  air,  chilling  the  flowers  which  had 
been  brought,  but  not  the  prayers  or  tears  of 
those  who  knew  a love  which  neither  time  nor 
shock  could  weaken  or  destroy.  The  hawsers 
were  cast  off ; the  tug  boats  pulled  us  around ; 
the  pilot  boat  came  along  side ; the  pilot  climbed 
our  ladder;  and  steered  us  toward  the  open  sea 
so  wide,  so  deep,  so  long  and  left  us.  Tenny- 
son’s thought  was  ours. 


12 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


For  though  from  out  this  bourne  of  time  and  place 
The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 

I hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face, 

When  I have  crossed  the  bar. 

Figures  are  deceiving,  but  try  to  imagine  our 
ship  of  twelve  thousand  tons  burden;  five  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five  feet  in  length;  masts  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  from  the  upper 
deck;  and  the  whole  ably  manned  from  Captain 
McAuley  on  the  bridge,  to  the  stokers  in  the 
hold  feeding  one  hundred  and  thirty-six  fires 
with  one  hundred  and  eighty  tons  of  coal  per 
day.  The  New  England  was  the  largest  passen- 
ger boat  floated  in  the  Mediterranean  sea;  to  say 
nothing  of  the  passengers'  size,  three  hundred 
and  five  woman  and  two  hundred  and  twenty 
men,  some  of  whom  were  the  biggest  and  best 
one  could  possibly  meet  with  on  land  or  sea. 

What  Irving  says  in  his  “To  an  American  vis- 
iting Europe  the  long  voyage  he  has  to  make  is 
an  excellent  preparative/'  I question.  If  you 
are  well  you  are  prepared  to  eat  and  drink 
and  may  be  merry  all  the  day  long  in  walking, 
talking,  reading,  smoking,  writing,  studying, 
playing  cards,  dressing,  flirting,  playing  piano, 
singing,  listening  to  orchestra,  napping,  boasting 
how  much  your  friends  think  of  you  and  you  of 
them,  or  planning  how  to  do  the  city  without 
being  “done  up"  by  some  infamous  interpreter, 


ON  SHIPBOARD. 


13 


heartless  hack  driver  or  swindling  shopkeeper 
whose  knowledge  of  Scripture  is  limited  to  “I 
was  a stranger  and  they  took  me  in.” 

If  you  are  sick  you  will  feel  like  giving  up 
all  you  hold  dear  except  your  hold  on  the  side 
of  the  bunk,  which  you  tighten  as  the  ship  rolls 
and  pitches,  thanking  the  builder  that  the  state 
room  is  no  larger  for  you  to  be  banged  and 
bounced  around  in ; while  at  lucid  and  quiet  in- 
tervals you  wonder  what  idiot  wrote  “Life  on  the 
Ocean  Wave.”  “Oh  my,”  I said  and  groaned, 
while  my  Christian  Science  friend  said:  “Sea 
sickness  is  a delusion!”  But  “can  such  (imagi- 
nary) things  be  and  overcome  us  like  a summer 
cloud  and  not  excite  our  special  wonder?” 

Scene  on  Deck,  5 p.  m. — Husband  to  wife: 
“Well,  I think  we  had  better  dress  for  dinner.” 
Wife:  “I  don’t  feel  like  it,  but  I suppose  we 

had.” 

Same  people  in  the  saloon  at  5 :30 ; lady  in  silk 
and  laces,  gentlemen  in  tuxedo.  At  5 :35  lady 
is  leaving  saloon  in  a hurry ; at  5 :45  the  gentle- 
man does  ditto. 

Moral : Be  sure  of  your  dinner  rather  than 

of  your  dress. 

Count  Mai  de  Mer  is  no  respector  of  persons. 
He  will  take  a young  belle  and  wring  her  until 
she  looks  old  and  worn  and  her. voice  is  thin  and 


14 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


cracked,  while  the  dear  old  body  whom  your 
heart  called  “mother”  and  for  whom  you  feared, 
is  always  on  deck  for  a walk  and  ready  for  three 
sittings  in  the  dining-room  per  diem.  There  are 
remedies  for  sea  sickness  but  the  best  one  I am 
inclined  to  believe  is  death.  The  preventives 
are  many  and  expensive ; powders,  pills  and  hum- 
ble diet.  The  cures  more  so;  bromides,  lemons, 
and  phosphates,  even  to  placing  a newspaper  on 
your  chest  and  lying  down  right  away.  I had  a 
downright  lying  paper  with  me  and  it  did  very 
well  for  everything  but  the  thing  it  was  pre- 
scribed for.  Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I 
was  not  very  sea  sick.  I just  felt  bad  enough  to 
want  to  be  real  sick  for  a change ; and  the  monot- 
ony was  not  relieved  for  three  days.  I wasn’t 
like  the  man  who  wanted  to  die  but  couldn’t,  and 
then  was  afraid  to.  I just  hated  myself  and  be- 
tween the  acts  of  the  comedy  of  dressing  myself 
in  sections  and  lying  down,  wished  I had  an  au- 
ger long  enough  to  bore  through  to  the  keel  and 
sink  all  on  board. 

The  animals  on  shipboard  enjoyed  the  passage 
very  much.  In  our  menagerie  I saw  a Baer, 
Bull,  and  Wolf.  Later  I met  a Fish  in  the  swim 
and  a Swan  on  the  water.  We  had  Frost 
and  Snow  on  leaving  Boston,  and  bright  Stars 
visible  day  and  night.  Let  the  great  dramatist 


ON  SHIPBOARD. 


15 


ask  now,  if  he  pleases,  “What’s  in  a name?”  and 
take  the  above  for  an  answer. 

One  must  be  a “good  mixer”  to  make  friendly 
progress  on  shipboard.  It  is  not  so  much  who 
your  father  was,  or  where  you  studied  or  how 
big  your  bank  account  is,  but  what  can  you  do 
to  please  the  crowd? 

At  the  dinner  table  fruits  and  nuts  were  served 
in  great  abundance.  Among  them  these  chest- 
nuts were  passed  around ; “Why  are  the  passen- 
gers of  the  New  England  like  a party  going  to 
a comic  opera?”  “Because  they  are  going  to 
Fun-call.”  “Why  should  all  bachelors  on  board 
get  a wife  before  they  return?”  “Because  they 
are  going  to  the  Maid-era.” 

Time  was  ours  in  large  quantities.  No  papers 
to  read  or  letters  to  answer,  ’phones  to  ring  up 
or  calls  to  look  after,  sermons  to  prepare  or 
preach  or  listen  to.  Clock  hands  give  way 
to  bell  tongues  which  ring  out  the  hours ; four 
hours  making  a watch  (and  unmaking  every 
timepiece  half  an  hour  a day)  until  we  are  driven 
to  desperation.  Six  watches  in  twenty-four 
hours;  at  12:30,  one;  at  1,  two;  and  so  on  until 
when  4 :oo  comes  it  rings  eight.  Easy  isn’t  it  ? 

My  friends  knew  the  piano  was  my  forte  and 
mathematics  my  foible,  so  I learned  to  keep  up 
with  the  times  by  dividing  the  number  of  bells 


i6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


by  two,  which  gave  me  the  hour  if  I could  re- 
member what  it  was  by  the  “watch. ” 

“The  hell  of  waters,  how  they  howl  and  hiss !” 
A stormy  sea  gives  us  a new  scripture.  Dr.  Duff, 
the  good  missionary,  had  often  read  Psalm  cvii., 
23-31  on  land,  but  when  the  “Lady  Holland” 
struck  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  bar  and  was 
wrecked,  he  found  the  “Traveler’s  Psalm”  a very 
different  thing.  We  had  no  big  storm  and  the 
foolish  passenger  who  wanted  one  was  not  grati- 
fied; but  we  were  at  the  look  the  captain  gave 
him.  There  had  been  one  the  day  before  and 
so  we  got  the  ground  swell  of  it.  Our  big  ship 
was  the  sport  of  the  whistling  wind  and  the  sav- 
age waves  that  rolled  and  rearing  themselves 
thirty  feet  in  the  air,  washed  the  upper  dack  and 
bridge.  This  led  the  captain  to  send  word  that 
there  was  danger  for  us  who  stood  in  the  bow, 
and  we  had  better  come  aft  or  go  below,  so  we 
accordingly  acted  upon  the  hint.  Neptune 
calmed  himself  somewhat,  but  we  were  restless. 
Our  sea  legs  struck  strange  attitudes ; our  bodies 
various  angles ; we  stood  not  upon  the  order  of 
our  introduction  or  going  out  or  going  in,  but 
embraced  each  other  without  leave  or  leaving  and 
just  held  on.  One  lurch  of  the  ship  sent  twenty 
steamer  chairs  sliding  down  the  deck  and  their 
occupants  into  the  scuppers ; the  fruit,  cracker 


FUNCHAL  CATHEDRAL 


ON  SHIPBOARD. 


1 7 


and  beef  tea  lunch  into  each  other’s  arms  and 
faces.  An  elderly  lady  struck  the  rail  which  re- 
sulted in  a bruised  forehead  and  blackened  eyes. 
A man  lost  his  balance,  upset  his  wife,  clasped 
another  woman  and  heard  his  partner  shriek,  “I 
think  you  might  hug  me  instead.”  Mrs.  Lucian 
Swift  strewed  shawl,  books,  Journal,  pen  and  a 
two-pound  box  of  fine  candy  over  the  deck ; while 
Mr.  W.  B.  Chandler,  the  genial  “Soo”  Line  agent, 
fell  on  his  knees  to  a strange  lady  and  laid  his 
head  in  her  lap. 

“O  Temporal  O Moses!”  Let  the  light  go 
out  on  this  dark  picture.  An  hour  after  I went 
to  dinner  and  the  dinner  went  after  me  in  spite 
of  table  racks ; the  ship  lurched,  waiters  lost  their 
balance,  and  the  whole  table  d’hote  took  a tum- 
ble in  my  lap.  I always  was  a lucky  dog  and  this 
was  an  added  proof.  “Everything  comes  my 
way.” 

Seriously,  the  sea’s  “wide  waste  of  weltering 
water”  is  a sublime  sight  in  what  it  is  or  seems 
or  does.  Byron’s  matchless  Apostrophe  is  but 
“moonlight  to  sunlight”  compared  with  itself. 
Leaning  over  the  rail  looking  at  the  phosphores- 
cent gleam,  the  curling  foam,  or  the  greenish  blue 
wake,  I recalled  and  repeated  his  “dark,  deep, 
blue  ocean;  boundless,  endless  sublime”  with 
new  and  never  before  dreamed  of  feeling.  To 


i8 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


think  that  the  great  God  holds  it  as  a drop  in 
the  hollow  of  His  hand  and  it  is  the  symbol  of 
His  mercy  in  its  “wideness.” 

Through  the  black  and  bright,  from  time  of 
evening  till  “jocund  day  stands  tip  toe  on  the 
misty  mountain  tops,”  let  this  wonderful  work 
declare  to  the  children  of  men,  “weeping  may  en- 
dure for  a night,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morn- 
ing.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

MADEIRA. 

The  Madeiras  belong  to  Portugal,  but  I claim 
them  by  right  of  discovery.  The  islands  have  an 
undulating  appearance  like  the  crest  of  a serpent 
and  rise  in  places  from  four  to  six  thousand  feet. 
Hills  and  valleys  are  covered  with  violet  and 
purple  vines,  little  villages  nestle  like  flocks  on 
the  hillside,  and  stray  huts  like  lost  lambs  are 
found  here  and  there.  Madeira  means  “wood,” 
and  once  the  island  was  heavy  with  timber,  but 
some  George  came  here  with  his  little  hatchet 
and  got  in  his  deadly  work  for  building  material 
or  a match  factory. 

Early  history  refers  to  a big  match  affair  here 


MADEIRA. 


19 


between  Robert  Machim  and  Anna  d’Arfet, 
whose  thoughts  lightly  turned  to  love.  They 
promised  to  leave  their  happy  homes  for  each 
other  and  eloped  from  England  to  France  in 
1346.  They  were  pursued  by  the  storm  of  papa’s 
boot  and  Neptune’s  blow,  which  took  them  out 
of  their  course  and  landed  them  at  a spot  called 
Mochico  in  memory  of  their  devotion.  You  may 
dilute  this  story  with  sea  water,  for  history,  like 
character,  is  often  doubtful  and  deceitful.  For 
instance,  what  of  Napoleon,  who  was  brought  to 
Madeira  on  his  way  to  St.  Helena,  or  of  Christo- 
pher Columbus,  who  came  to  Porto  Santo,  stu- 
died navigation,  and  married  the  daughter  of 
Governor  Perestrello?  We  have  discovered  that 
he  did  not  discover  America,  and  did  do  some 
other  things  which  would  not  make  good  read- 
ing in  Sunday  school  libraries. 

Funchal  is  the  capital  of  Madeira.  It  lies  on  a 
curving  shore;  white  houses  called  “quintas,” 
with  terraced  gardens,  surrounded  by  vineyards 
and  patches  of  sugar-cane,  beautify  the  slopes. 

A small  fort,  Loo  Rock,  close  to  shore,  guards 
the  bay,  and  on  the  hill  behind  the  city  there  is  a 
formidable  fortress  which  thundered  a salute  to 
us  after  we  had  raised  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and 
English  Jack. 

We  dropped  anchor  in  the  open  roadstead 


20 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


and  “dropped”  it  was,  for  the  cable  broke  when 
three  hundred  and  sixty  feet  had  been  let  out 
before  bottom  had  been  reached.  The  officers 
showed  a warmth  of  feeling  which  made  it  nec- 
essary for  the  health  officer  to  board  the  ship 
and  ask  what  the  matter  was. 

The  natives  are  of  Portuguese  descent,  with  a 
mixture  of  negro  and  Moorish  blood.  They 
stretched  hands  across  the  sea  which  threatened 
to  overturn  their  canoes,  and  tried  to  sell  us 
lace,  parrots,  wickerwork  and  jewelry.  They 
held  out  umbrellas  to  catch  the  coin  which  we 
threw  them  or  dived  out  into  the  deep  water  for 
other  pieces,  which  never  got  away  from  them. 

On  shore  the  men  wore  a skin-tight  fitting 
trouser  which  came  to  their  knees,  a coarse 
shirt  covered  by  a short  jacket,  rough  yellow 
boots,  and  a little  cap  of  blue  cloth,  called  “cara- 
puca,”  shaped  like  a funnel  with  a pipe  on  top, 
through  which  we  tried  to  convey  a few  ideas. 
The  women  were  polite,  some  pretty  and  young 
and  some  pretty  old.  They  dressed  in  a gay 
looking  gown  of  some  native  material  and  a cape 
of  red  or  blue  wool  cloth. 

But  I wanted  to  see  a man,  and  I had  a letter 
of  introduction  to  him  from  my  friends  in 
Owensboro  who  had  been  his  early  playmates  in 
the  old  town.  This  gentleman  was  the  Hon. 


MADEIRA. 


31 


Tom  Jones,  our  American  consul,  and  when  I 
say  he  was  a true  Kentuckian,  the  world  under- 
stands he  was  the  soul  of  chivalry,  courage  and 
companionship. 

He  asked  me  if  I would  take  a ride.  I said 
“Yes,”  and  he  ordered  a bull-cart,  for  Funchal  is 
the  place  of  the  horseless  carriage  and  was  even 
then  negotiating  for  wireless  telegraphy,  motion- 
less messenger  boys  and  speechless  banquets.  A 
bull-cart  is  a kind  of  car,  built  on  runners,  cur- 
tained and  made  to  hold  four  people,  and  drawn 
by  oxen  which  your  driver  prods  and  curses  as 
he  trots  by  your  side,  placing  a greasy  rag  in 
front  of  the  runners  so  that  they  may  slide  eas- 
ily. When  you  want  a different  ride  you  climb 
into  a hammock,  made  of  strong  canvas  fastened 
to  a long  pole  carried  by  two  men.  Instead  of  a 
wheelbarrow  or  truck,  laborers  carry  heavy  bur- 
dens on  their  heads,  which  develops  a kind  of 
bull-neck  and  makes  them  head  strong,  as  we 
soon  learned. 

I found  the  streets  narrow  and  clean,  paved 
with  small  round  stones.  There  are  no  side- 
walks; you  keep  in  the  “middle  of  the  road.” 
Two  public  walks,  with  trees,  invite  a promen- 
ade, and  in  spring  time  streams  run  down  the 
hills  and  flow  across  the  town  in  deep  channels. 

The  stores  are  small.  I bought  a silver  ring. 


22 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


two  bulls  and  a cart.  No  window  display  at- 
tracts and  bargain  counters  are  unknown.  Mar- 
kets offer  poor  meat,  fresh  fish,  and  vegetables. 
These,  with  salt  herring  and  cod,  are  the  leading 
articles  of  diet.  The  dwellings  have  their  ground 
floor  windows  fitted  with  iron  bars  which  give 
them  a jail-like  appearance.  The  houses  are 
painted  white,  with  green  latticed  blinds.  Rich 
people  have  larger  houses.  My  friend,  Ladd,  was 
attracted  to  one,  met  the  lady,  and  with  gesture 
and  speech  said,  “Beautiful,  I look  around 
here?”  To  which  she  replied,  “Certainly,  sir; 
you  are  very  welcome.”  She  was  the  English- 
speaking  wife  of  a Portuguese  merchant.  He 
was  invited  in,  shown  the  furnishings,  and  asked 
to  remain  and  dine  with  the  husband,  whose  ap- 
pearance was  soon  expected. 

The  town  has  a fine  public  garden,  with  plants 
and  flowers  and  a band-stand  where  an  excellent 
orchestra  furnishes  free  music  in  the  afternoon. 
I saw  a large  hospital  built  by  the  late  Empress 
of  Brazil  for  the  care  of  consumptives  of  Brazil- 
ian or  Portuguese  birth.  Many  things  were 
foreign  in  name  and  arrangement,  for  instance, 
the  proprietor’s  name,  “Jesus,”  in  big  letters 
over  the  door  and  gate  entrances  into  paved  ves- 
tibules from  which  a double  flight  of  stairs  lead 
to  the  main  room  above. 


MADEIRA. 


23 


For  pleasure,  the  people  go  on  an  excursion 
by  bull-cart,  or  climb  the  mountain  and  descend 
in  a basket  sledge  on  the  principal  of  a toboggan 
slide.  There  is  a Portuguese  club  house  with 
card,  billiard  and  ball  rooms  ,and  an  English  club 
house,  overlooking  th*  sea.  The  theater  is  large 
and  finely  decorated.  The  Casino  Hotel  is  built 
on  the  site  -of  the  house  Columbus  once  occupied. 
I visited  it  by  night.  The  gardens  were  artistic- 
ally laid  out,  lights  gleamed  like  stars  overhead, 
while  within  the  building  men  and  women  were 
engaged  in  playing  faro  and  roulette.  A bru- 
nette came  and  said,  “Welcome;  have  some  cake 
and  wine,”  after  which  she  added,  “Will  you  not 
play?”  I said,  “Certainly,”  left  her,  and  sat  down 
to  the  piano,  to  her  surprise. 

A prominent  object  is  the  governor’s  castle- 
like residence.  The  city  is  governed  by  a presi- 
dent and  council  of  seven.  Revenue  comes  from 
a tax  on  imported  grain  and  salt;  on  fresh  fish 
and  meat  sold  in  the  open  market;  on  the  wine 
that  is  exported,  the  houses  occupied,  and  the 
merchants  carrying  on  trade.  Expense  for  pub- 
lic improvements  and  care  of  the  town  cannot  be 
very  much,  and  there  is  a chance  for  the  mi- 
crobe graft  to  pursue  its  dishonest  career. 

The  natives  are  rich  with  a poor  man’s  wealth. 
In  this  tropical  climate  the  real  house  plants 


24 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


are  children,  and  they  are  very  many.  The  law 
says  they  shall  go  to  school;  some  did,  but  I’m 
sure  more  were  down  to  meet  us.  But  school 
without  “hookey”  is  like  ham  without  an  omelet. 
I always  regret  that  ’mid  all  my  youthful  joy  of 
study  I missed  the  pleasure  of  playing  truant. 

Roman  Catholicism  is  the  established  form  of 
religion.  The  bishop  is  at  the  head  of  the  clergy 
and  his  cathedral  is  at  Funchal.  Years  ago  Pro- 
testants were  regarded  as  heretics,  they  had  a 
hard  time  in  life,  and  at  death  were  taken  out  for 
burial  at  sea,  but  other  beliefs  are  now  tolerated. 
The  wine  trade  brought  the  British  merchants, 
they  erected  a church  and  have  a resident  chap- 
lin  who  conducts  the  Episcopal  service.  The 
Presbyterians  followed  their  example,  built  a 
church  and  stand  in  their  faith  for  the  Free 
Church  of  Scotland.  On  my  return  from  the  old 
cathedral,  with  its  cedar  roof,  red  and  gold, 
Moorish  style  and  silver  ornaments,  I met  a 
funeral  procession.  The  body  was  carried  on  the 
shoulders  of  four  bearers;  the  priests  marched 
in  front  with  open  book,  chanting  the  service, 
while  relatives  and  mourners  followed  behind. 
Here,  as  elsewhere,  there  is  no  land  one  can  visit 
where  the  dark  shadow  of  the  grave  does  not 
fall  on  the  hearth  and  heart  of  man. 

We  had  delightful  weather.  The  city  is  a 


MADEIRA. 


25 


sanitary  resort;  the  mean  annual  temperature  is 
66  degrees  and  sick  and  tired  people  come  here 
to  find  the  climate  mild  in  summer  and  winter, 
day  and  night.  In  such  an  atmosphere  there  are 
innumerable  insects,  many  moths,  and  nearly  a 
thousand  varieties  of  beetles.  One  finds  a few 
lizards  and  turtles.  Young  Isaac  Waltons  go 
out  and  find  choice  of  several  hundred  kinds  of 
fish.  When  it  comes  to  botany,  the  vegetation 
is  like  southern  Europe. 

The  island  shows  volcanic  formation  and  ac- 
tion. Lagoa,  to  the  east,  has  a crater  five  hun- 
dred feet  in  diameter  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
feet  deep. 

Virgil’s  “Bucolics”  were  not  inspired  by  this 
country.  The  people  generally  rent  the  land  but 
own  the  house,  walls  and  trees,  paying  their 
rental  by  a per  cent  of  the  produce  raised.  Hired 
men  are  not  needed,  for  man  and  wife  are  literal 
“helpmeets.”  Farming  implements  are  old-fash- 
ioned affairs.  In  absence  of  meadows,  the  cattle 
are  fed  in  the  stalls  when  they  are  not  out  in 
the  mountains.  Oxen  furnish  power  and  the 
horse  is  as  rare  as  the  Dodo  bird.  Water  is 
scarce,  comes  through  courses  built  of  masonry, 
or  driven  through  rock  tunnels  and  has  a mar- 
ketable value. 

The  people  were  very  sweet  to  us,  for  sugar 


26 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


is  one  of  their  staple  articles.  A long  time  ago 
some  one  brought  the  cane  from  Sicily.  It  may 
have  been  an  Evil  Spirit,  for  the  people  have 
been  “Raising  Cain”  ever  since,  making  a kind 
of  fire-water  from  a distillation  of  the  thick  juice 
after  extracting  the  sugar.  They  further  grow 
wheat,  barley,  Indian  corn,  good  common  vege- 
tables, poor  apples,  pears  and  peaches,  lemons, 
oranges,  guavas,  figs,  bananas,  pineapples,  and 
a custard  apple  that  melts  into  the  remembrance 
of  pies  “like  mother  used  to  make.”  They  raise 
a little  tobacco  from  which  they  make  atrocious 
cigars.  A few  date  palms,  more  picturesque  than 
palatable,  are  found  on  the  hill  sides,  and  the 
upper  hills  are  full  of  Spanish  chestnuts  which 
form  a big  item  of  food  for  the  poor. 

Some  of  the  natives  make  coarse  linen  articles, 
and  boots  and  shoes  for  their  own  use.  The  girls 
do  a lot  of  needlework  and  embroidery,  while 
the  old  women  make  wicker-work  baskets  and 
chairs  from  the  osiers  which  grow  in  the  ra- 
vines. One  of  our  lady  tourists  bought  a chair 
which  proved  to  be  a kind  of  white  elephant  on 
her  hands  and  under  our  feet,  for  it  was  always 
on  deck  and  as  unmanageable  as  Victor  Hugo’s 
cannon. 

I went  to  a local  bank  where  English  mer- 
chants cash  your  bills  and  checks  for  a consid- 


MADEIRA. 


27 


eration  of  something  more  than  friendly  interest. 
The  people  have  the  French  decimal  system,  a 
kind  of  visionary  “reis”  coin,  which  makes  your 
calctilations  crazy.  Four  thousand  five  hundred 
equal  a pound  sterling,  and  one  thousand  make 
a mil-re  or  dollar,  equal  to  four  shillings  and  five 
and  one-third  pence.  I was  compelled  to  go  to 
the  postoffice.  I wanted  some  postal  cards  and 
stamps  for  a collection  I intended  to  make.  I 
offered  my  money  and  the  clerk  said,  “Fifty  reis 
for  one-half  dozen.”  I thought  he  had  raised 
the  price,  but  I paid  the  money  and  staggered 
to  the  cable  office  to  wire  my  family  I had 
reached  Madeira  in  safety  and  was  doing  as  well 
as  could  be  expected. 

The  word  Madeira  is  a synonym  for  wine.  The 
vine  was  brought  here  from  Crete  as  early  as 
the  16th  century.  The  peasants  cultivate  it  on 
their  little  patches  of  land;  the  merchant  buys  the 
“must”  from  the  press,  takes  it  to  his  store, 
where  he  ferments  and  treats  it  until  it  is  fit  for 
market.  The  famous  Madeira  wine  is  made  from 
a mixture  of  black  and  white  grapes,  which  are 
also  made  separately  into  wines  called  “Tinta” 
and  “Verdelho.”  My  friend,  Consul  Jones,  in- 
sisted that  I should  dine  with  him  at  Reid’s  new 
hotel.  It  is  built  on  the  margin  of  a cliff,  one 
hundred  feet  above  the  blue  water,  and  offers 


28 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


a fine  view  of  shore,  mountain  and  sea.  I was 
introduced  to  the  proprietor  and  sat  down  to  a 
big  banquet.  To  my  left  there  was  a sweet,  old 
English  lady  from  London  who  divided  her  talk 
between  good  Queen  Victoria  and  the  bad  In- 
dians in  the  Rocky  Mountains.  She  was  in  fine 
spirits  and  not  less  so  when  a bottle  of  Madeira 
of  the  vintage  of  i860  was  opened  and  a toast 
was  drunk  to  the  success  of  the  “Innocents 
Abroad.” 

May  not  Madeira  be  spelled  Mad- 
era? Paul  told  Timothy,  “Use  a little  wine  for 
thine  often  infirmities,”  but  history  proves  that 
much  wine  makes  bad  medicine.  If  it  is  true 
that  “In  the  trembling  hand  of  a drunkard  every 
crimson  drop  that  glowed  in  the  cup  is  crushed 
from  the  roses  that  once  bloomed  on  the  cheeks 
of  some  helpless  woman,”  then  we  must  con- 
clude, “O,  thou  invisible  spirit  of  wine,  if  thou 
hast  no  name  to  be  known  by,  let  us  call  thee 
‘devil.’  ” 

It  was  midnight  when  we  left  Funchal.  The 
moon  veiled  herself  like  a nun  and  entered  her 
chapel,  lit  by  stars,  and  I drifted  “gently  down 
the  tides  of  sleep.” 


A DAY  AT  GIBRALTAR. 


29 


CHAPTER  III. 

A DAY  AT  GIBRALTAR. 

We  entered  Gibraltar  strait, — it’s  about  thirty- 
six  miles  long  with  much  varying  width — and 
sighted  Tarifa  on  the  coast  of  Spain,  with  Africa 
only  nine  miles  away.  Tarifa  was  too  unimport- 
ant to  visit  with  more  than  a glance  through  our 
glass,  but  the  word  is  associated  with  something 
all  good  citizens  are  interested  in,  and  tourists 
especially  on  their  return  home,  and  that  is  “tar- 
iff” ; a rate  of  duty  leveled  on  all  things  imported. 
It  was  the  custom  of  these  Barbary  pirates  who 
built  a castle  at  Tarifa,  to  force  toll  nolens  volens 
from  every  vessel  that  passed  by. 

Gibraltar  welcomed  us  with  torpedo  and  war 
vessels,  and  a steam  tender  on  which  an  officious 
foreigner  informed  us  that  “kodak  machines 
were  not  allowed  on  land.”  But  that  was  just  the 
place  for  a kodak ; so  while  an  officer  at  the  wharf 
confiscated  a reverend  Father’s  photographic  out- 
fit, my  simple-looking  machine  was  smuggled  in 
a passenger’s  shawl  and  later  brought  back  to 
the  ship  in  a basket  of  lemons  and  oranges  which 
I purchased  on  shore. 

Of  course,  I took  a few  pictures  on  the  sly,  as 
it  was  a good  year  for  Americans  abroad,  and 


30 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


our  relation  was  so  cordial  with  England  in  a 
brotherly  ‘‘alliance,”  that  I could  not  be  denied 
the  privilege  of  freedom  of  an  American  cousin 
and  ardent  admirer  of  good  old  England. 
What  were  a few  snap  shots,  anyway,  when  they 
were  shooting  all  the  time  in  Africa,  and  at  that 
very  minute  were  snapping  their  fingers  at  Oom 
Paul? 

Gibraltar  is  more  than  a “gob  of  mud  on  the 
end  of  a stick.”  If  you  are  mathematical  you 
will  be  interested  in  knowing  that  it  is  a pro- 
montory three  by  seven  miles,  whose  great- 
est height  is  one  thousand  four  hundred 
feet.  If  mythological,  that,  with  Ceuta,  on 
the  African  coast,  it  formed  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  west  of  which  nothing  was  supposed 
to  exist  but  chaos  and  darkness.  If  historical, 
that  it  was  called  Gebel  Tarik,  from  the  Moorish 
conqueror  who  came  there  in  71 1 A.  D.,  since 
which  time  the  game  of  war  has  been  played  with 
varying  fortune  by  the  Christian,  Moor,  British, 
Dutch,  Spanish  and  French,  until  the  spirit  of 
Sir  Gilbert  Eliott  prevailed ; a spirit  which  star- 
vation, sickness  and  shot  could  not  down,  so  that 
England  has  retained  Gibraltar  as  her  possession, 
though  Spain  is  said  to  regard  the  rock  as  only 
“temporarily”  under  a foreign  flag.  A hat, 
sandy  isthmus  joins  the  rock  with  the  mainland. 


A DAY  AT  GIBRALTAR. 


3i 


The  rock  is  honeycombed  with  galleries,  in  which 
are  formidable-looking  guns,  and,  with  battery 
and  bastion,  make  it  almost  invincible. 

We  entered  the  rock  gallery  near  the  old 
Moorish  Castle,  built  in  725  A.  D.,  and  splendidly 
preserved.  Walks,  walls,  ivy,  moss,  fern  and 
flower  lured  us  up  and  on,  till  we  were  in  a 
Mammoth  Cave,  from  whose  embrasures  we  saw 
a most  magnificent  panorama.  To  the  East  lay 
the  blue  Mediterranean ; to  the  West,  the  snow- 
mantled  hills  of  Granada ; and  near  us,  the  Span- 
ish mainland.  On  this  side  of  the  Neutral  Line 
was  a race  course,  rifle  range,  two  large  ceme- 
teries, great  cattle  sheds,  and  the  Devil’s  Tower, 
whose  strange  stories  make  one  feel  a little  like 
Tam  O’Shanter  when  he  and  Meg  had  such  a 
fine  time;  while  just  beyond  this  dead  line  was 
the  Spanish  town  of  Linea,  with  its  bull  ring  and 
everything  to  match. 

We  did  not  have  time  to  climb  the  stony  stair- 
case that  led  to  Queen  Isabella’s  chair,  and  so 
made  a “bee  line”  over  to  Linea  in  Spain,  along  a 
road  sentineled  by  fierce  mustachioed  soldiers, 
thronged  by  workingmen  and  women,  beggars  to 
boot,  and  some  others  putting  tobacco  in  their 
boots  and  stockings  to  smuggle  through  the  cus- 
tom-house ; a custom  in  principle,  I understand, 
practiced  by  some  Americans  on  their  return 


32 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


home,  when  the  word  “duty,”  which  they  had  al- 
most forgotten  suddenly  confronts  them.  The 
town  was  one  of  the  worst  (I  hope)  in  Spain, 
and  a short  sight-seeing  made  us  glad  to  leave 
its  dirt,  rags,  drunkenness  and  general  deviltry. 
A little  ragmuffin  scanned  our  company  and, 
making  a thumb  and  nose  gesture,  said,  “Ameri- 
cans no  good.” 

Returning,  we  climbed  from  the  King’s  bas- 
tion to  the  Alameda  esplanade,  where  there  is  a 
beautiful  garden  in  which  the  military  band  plays, 
and  there,  as  everywhere,  people  bent  on  pleasure 
showed  their  wealth  and  dress  by  promenading 
up  and  down. 

A W.  C.  T.  U.  sign  woke  familiar  associations. 
We  wished  it  well  and  passed  on  mid  a throng 
of  black-eyed  women,  pale  and  half-blind  children 
who  cried  “adios”  and  “good-by”  for  the  coppers 
we  tossed  them. 

A little  later  we  met  a different  kind  of  greet- 
ing. It  was  from  a flushed  faced  little  woman  who 
had  missed  her  husband  in  the  crowd  and  met 
him  with  a private  party.  She  looked  much,  but 
only  said,  “Well  I’m  provoked  at  you,”  and  he 
coolly  replied,  “Well,  my  dear,  go  up  on  the  for- 
tifications and  you  will  feel  better.”  It  was  only 
a war  of  words  and  there  was  no  grave  danger 
for  the  American  consul,  John  Sprague,  was 


STREET  SCENE  IN  ALGIERS 


A DAY  AT  GIBRALTAR. 


33 


near  by  for  the  protection  of  defenseless  Ameri- 
cans as  he  and  his  father  had  been  for  forty-five 
years. 

We  drove  along  the  water’s  edge  to 
Europa  Point,  showing  fortifications,  barracks, 
patches  of  green,  splashes  of  blue,  and  a 
fine  lighthouse  which  has  taken  the  place  of 
the  votive  lamp  the  Spanairds  dedicated  to 
la  Virgen  de  Europa.  The  governor’s 
summer  residence  is  around  the  point,  beyond 
which  is  the  “Thus-far-shalt-thou-go-and-no- 
farther”  of  the  rock  rising  perpendicularly  from 
the  sea.  ’Mid  all  this  rock  there  is  something  re- 
lenting— all  is  not  stony  any  more  than  in  a hu- 
man soul.  In  nook  and  cranny  were  patches  of 
soil  cultivated  by  the  growth  of  trees,  shrubs 
and  flowers.  Wild  olive,  acanthus — and  another 
“wild”  plant  from  which  our  French  friends 
make  a drink  called  absinthe — grow  in  profusion 
and  festoon  the  hard  angles  dressing  the  bare 
stone  with  a beauty  you  observe  at  the  harbor 
and  fall  in  love  with  as  you  walk  or  ride  over  the 
rugged  sides. 

In  stormy  weather  the  “live  thunder”  may  leap 
from  peak  to  peak,  but  on  the  summer  day’s  visit 
we  saw  Barbary  apes  jumping  on  the  ledges  and 
running  among  the  rocks.  They  are  protected 
by  law  from  the  arms  of  their  murderous  broth- 


34 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


ers ; and  as  the  only  apes  in  Europe,  looked  with 
wonderment  upon  the  antics  of  their  descend- 
ants we  wondered  what  they  thought. 

Bright  British  soldiers  were  much  in  evidence 
and  the  Cameron  Highlanders  were  a splendid 
set  of  fellows.  Although  finely  equipped,  they 
seemed  to  me  to  be  the  targets  for  murderous  bul- 
lets,or  for  more  deadly  assaults  of  ‘‘Wine,  women 
and  song”  which  lay  in  wait  for  their  money  and 
morals.  I noticed  an  “ad”  for  a masked  ball  for 
the  war  in  Africa  and  listened  to  a beaming  Brit- 
on sing,  “The  Absent-Minded  Beggar.”  That 
night  I heard  two  English  civilians  talking  about 
Buller’s  retreat.  One  of  them  remarked : “I 
guess  we’d  better  pack  up  and  go  home.” 

In  absence  of  newspapers,  almost  as  necessary 
to  life  as  air  to  lungs,  I learned  one  theory  about 
the  late  Cecil  Rhodes : “The  British  empire 

wanted  an  unbroken  dominion  in  which  to  run  a 
railroad  from  Cairo  to  Cape,  and  had  a right  to 
take  what  it  pleased  in  this  world;  the  English 
will  govern  the  Boers  better  than  they  will  gov- 
ern themselves ; trade  and  money  ought  to  be 
more  to  ‘progressive’  people  than  the  old  fogy 
words  of  liberty  and  self-government.  Eng- 
land’s creed  can  be  summed  up  in  the  famous 
old  resolution : ‘Resolved,  That  the  earth  is  the 

Lord’s  and  He  has  given  it  to  His  saints.  Re- 


• ALGIERS— THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


35 


solved,  That  we  are  the  saints ; therefore  we 
will  drive  out  the  non-progressive  Boers  and  take 
possession  of  their  gold  mines/  ” 

I have  an  acquaintance,  a church  member  who 
took  extra  insurance  on  his  life  before  sailing  and 
was  resigned  to  the  future.  In  case  of  death  at 
sea,  he  simply  requested  to  be  buried  at  Gibral- 
tar; in  Africa,  at  the  base  of  one  of  the  pyra- 
mids ; or  in  Europe,  at  Westminster  abbey,  and 
expected  his  friends  to  come  and  visit  him. 

I heard  a band.  I saw  a crowd.  What  did  it 
mean?  “St.  Peter,”  approached,  holding  the  key 
of  the  city  gates  in  his  hand ; in  a few  minutes 
the  sun  would  set,  the  evening  gun  be  fired  and 
the  gates  closed  and  locked  till  sunrise  the  next 
day.  What  a commentary  on  the  text,  “The  Door 
was  Shut.”  The  right  side  means  home  and  hea- 
ven ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ALGIERS— THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

We  reached  Algiers  by  sunrise,  and  while  we 
looked  upon  the  “dawn’s  early  light,”  a sailor 
climbed  the  mast  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  to 
float  our  flag  in  the  skies. 


36 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT.  * 


The  city  looked  like  a collection  of  lime  kilns, 
moles,  quays,  barges  and  beggars  in  rags  and 
bags,  as  well  as  some  in  velvet  gowns.  We 
landed,  and  it  was  worth  our  life  to  get  a cab, 
and  when  we  finally  persuaded  the  driver  to 
terms,  my  companion,  a Kentuckian,  objected  to 
getting  in  because  the  horses  were  not  big  and 
blooded  stock,  and  so  another  ten  minutes  elapsed 
before  we  found  another  team  only  a little  worse 
than  the  former.  The  first  driver  went  away 
muttering  an  Englishman’s  American  oath,  and 
my  friend  found  it  in  his  heart  to  echo  it  many 
times  in  a warmth  and  way  hotter  than  the  Afri- 
can sun  that  was  giving  us  a “Hot  time  in  the 
old  town”  long  before  night. 

Algiers  is  four  hundred  and  ten  miles  from 
Gibraltar.  Its  harbor  is  artificial  but  well  for- 
tified as  a French  garrison,  dockyard,  arsenal, 
light-house  and  many  varieties  of  troops  proved. 

Curious  little  and  big  craft  went  silently  in  and 
out  and  told  their  life  story  in  grain,  wool,  hides, 
rags,  tobacco,  iron  and  copper  ore  and  coral. 
What  a lot  of  things,  but  what  a lot  of  people — 
eighty-three  thousand!  “Men  must  work”  as 
well  as  “women  must  weep!” 

The  city  was  founded  by  the  Arabs  in  A.  D. 
935,  and  became  headquarters  for  a tribe  of  pir- 
ates who  terrorized  Christendom  for  years;  con- 


ALGIERS— THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


37 


demned  twenty  thousand  Christian  captives  at 
one  time  to  build  its  fortifications  and  harbor  de- 
fenses, until  the  French  succeeded  in  gaining 
possession  of  the  city  in  1830.  They  have  held 
it  ever  since. 

Algiers  climbs  from  the  harbor  on  a range  of 
hills  in  semicircular  order,  the  buildings  are  sub- 
stantial, snow-white  and  rise  regularly,  and  are 
surrounded  by  a rim  of  greenery  which  has  led 
to  its  native  characterization  of  a “Diamond  in- 
closed in  an  emerald.” 

The  Maraout,  or  Arab  quarter,  is  the  upper  or 
Southern  part  of  the  town,  and  at  once  both  pic- 
turesque and  irregular  in  Moorish  art,  architec- 
ture and  manners.  The  French  occupy  the 
Northern  part  of  the  city  and  the  language, 
look,  money  and  morals  of  Algiers  are  all  de- 
cidedly French;  so,  too,  the  names  of  streets  and 
squares,  and  what  is  left  of  Arab  features  is  what 
the  Gallic  conquerers  could  not  eradicate. 

We  found  the  French  part  of  the  city  clean 
and  well  paved — shops  and  arcades  everywhere 
invited  the  tourist  to  invest  his  money  for  em- 
broideries, ivory,  coral,  metal,  curious  fans,  in- 
laid work  in  wood,  mother  of  pearl  and  ivory  and 
semi-barbaric  manufactures  of  colored  leather. 

We  now  learned  the  oriental  habit  of  two  or 
twenty-two  prices.  It  is  as  beautifully  change- 


38 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


able  and  multicolored  as  the  sea  water  by  sun, 
moon  or  starlight.  But  we  got  our  money’s 
worth,  I’m  sure. 

What  do  you  think  we  saw  ? Something  more 
than  nothing  at  all — bloomer  girls  and  men  be- 
bloused;  bread  all  round  that  looked  like  life- 
floats  and  preservers  carried  on  peasants’  arms ; 
jugs  by  doors,  and  jars  on  heads  and  veils  on 
faces  (fortunately,  if  the  women  were  as  homely 
as  some  of  the  girls)  ; family  laundry  in  a pub- 
lic washing  square,  unmindful  of  the  proverb  of 
“dirty  linen” ; men  cooking  food  and  drink  on  a 
little  brazier  by  the  door,  burning  oil  and  wick ; 
a cemetery  with  a lot  of  veiled  persons  kneeling 4 
crying  women  who  were  making  a paying  busi- 
ness of  it  for  three  days ; Arabs  asleep  on  the 
sidewalks  with  their  shoes  removed  to  the  gut- 
ters and  street  for  safe-keeping;  men  working  in 
dark  and  dingy  holes  and  boxes  which  they  call 
stores  and  shops;  boys  and  girls  fighting;  blind 
boys  scratching;  children  and  dogs  in  a row 
which  was  not  broken  up  until  an  officer  snatched 
a horse  whip  from  a bystander  and  vigorously 
applied  it  to  various  parts  of  the  offenders’  anat- 
omy ; boys  and  girls  kissing  each  other  and  turn- 
ing somersaults  and  kissing  their  hands  towards 
us,  looking  sweet  and  asking  for  “bucksheesh” 
(hang  the  word  and  them)  ; school  children  con- 


ALGIERS— THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


39 


ning  lesson  cards  in  their  hands  while  sitting  on 
the  floor  of  a dark,  musty  room  and  yelling  out 
their  lessons  to  a teacher  cross-legged  and  half 
asleep  in  the  corner ; modest  Moorish  ladies,  like 
veiled  prophets,  walking  the  narrow  sidewalks  ; 
immodest  Moorish  girls  leering  from  latticed 
windows  at  passers  below ; dancing  girls  every- 
where, until  one  of  our  elderly  ladies  laughed 
so  that  her  upper  teeth  fell  down,  and  a little 
Arab  wh'o  saw  it  came  to  a young  woman  ex- 
pecting hers  to  do  the  same ; all  this  and  more 
you  may  see,  and  we  did. 

I’m  not  surprised  that  “A  soldier  of  the  legion 
lay  dying  in  Algiers”;  even  now  there  is  enough 
to  kill  a regiment ; life's  common  decencies  are 
disregarded  by  old  and  young.  As  we  climbed 
the  hills  the  people  seemed  to  go  down  in  morals, 
so  that  I was  only  moderately  shocked  when  I 
met  an  elderly  man  (whom  I had  taken  for  an 
ex-clergyman  on  the  boat)  red  of  eyes  and  thick 
of  tongue,  laboring  with  and  almost  belaboring 
his  guide.  Seeing  me  he  shook  his  fist  in  the 
yellow  fiend’s  face  and  said,  “For  heaven’s 
sake,  Morrill,  take  me  to  the  boat;  this  old  fool 
has  walked  my  feet  off  for  two  hours  and  doesn’t 
understand  a thing  I say.” 

I had  broken  my  spectacles  and  left  them  to  be 
mended  at  a little  shop  around  the  corner,  or  the 


40 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


sight  of  such  depravity  must  have  quite  over- 
powered me.  As  it  was,  I only  sighed  and 
smiled  and  made  our  fallen  friend  one  of  our 
company. 

“All  that  glisters  is  not  gold.”  There’s  the 
house  the  ex-king  of  Anam  lived  in ; there  goes 
whirling  by  the  exiled  queen  of  Madagascar ; 
here  is  the  guide,  called  “Two  Time  Roberts,” 
because  of  his  many  wives.  Let  us  go  to  the 
L’Oasis  restaurant  and  get  a drink  of  black  cof- 
fee or  mineral  water  served  at  a little  stand  on 
the  sidewalk  nearest  the  street,  and  while  we 
view  Algerian  tragedy  and  comedy,  drink  to  its 
better  future  prosperity  with  thanks  for  the  fun 
it  has  afforded  us. 

While  sipping  my  coffee  I gave  a little  half- 
clad  Arab  a penny.  He  put  my  foot  on  his  box 
and  began  to  scrub  my  shoes  with  a thick  paste. 
It  was  quite  unnecessary,  but  he  was  a winsome 
fellow,  and  1 allowed  the  work  of  affection. 
When  finished,  I offered  him  a penny  (two  cents) 
for  charity’s  sweet  sake,  and  he  raised  a row  be- 
cause I did  not  give  him  twice  as  much.  He  was 
insistent,  and  my  French  guide,  Dumas,  had  all 
he  could  do  to  talk  and  threaten  him  away.  I 
must  learn  the  native  language  in  self-defense, 
or  French,  which  goes  everywhere.  But  how 
treacherous  a new  tongue  is ! Think  of  the  sweet 


ALGIERS— THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


4i 


Miss  Blank  of  our  party  asking  for  butter  and 
receiving  a glass  of  beer.  The  excuse  she  made 
for  the  mistake  was,  “That  old  waiter  must  be 
an  Italian.”  But  the  American  consul,  Mr.  Kid- 
der of  Florida,  is  here  to  protect  us  and  deserves 
a better  office  than  the  one  we  found  him  in  on  a 
back  street  The  “office”  of  an  American  consul 
should  be  an  object  lesson  to  the  natives  and  visi- 
tors, and  unsolicited  I speak  for  furnishings  and 
flags  befitting  the  best  nation  in  the  world. 

Good-bye,  Algiers,  with  thy  Muscat  wine,  jugs, 
jars,  veils,  palms,  mud-plastered  houses,  gover- 
nor’s “summer  palace,”  cave  of  wild  women, 
sommersaultingboys,  assaulting  men  and  insulting 
women ; farewell,  Bresson  square,  Cathedral  St. 
Phmppe,  Church  of  Our  Lady  of  Africa,  Mosque 
el  Tebir  and  Old  Citadel  of  Kosbah,  Place  of 
Government  and  Statue  Due  de  Orleans ; au  re- 
voir,  archbishop’s  residence  and  cathedral  and 
royal  burial  place  of  St.  Jerome ; mosque,  with 
thy  shoe-removing,  hand-and-foot  washing,  head- 
and-body  prostrations,  and  Boulevarde  de  la 
Republique. 

Beautiful  roads  lasso  beautiful  hills,  a look 
gives  grand  views,  till  from  the  highest  point  of 
Algiers  your  driver  turns  a corner  and  says  : “Ah, 
there,”  or  something  that  means  the  same  thing. 
And  there  lies  the  city  with  its  architecture,  the 


42 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


bay  with  its  shipping,  the  blue  sky  above  you, 
the  iridescent  sea,  beneath  you,  and  a little  hymn 
in  your  heart : “All  things  are  beautiful,”  made 

so  by  the  good  Father  who  loves  to  please  his 
children. 


CHAPTER  V. 

QUAINT  OLD  MALTA. 

A clear  sky,  a little  land  bird  on  deck  so  tired, 
Galatea  islands  towards  the  African  coast  rising 
like  Aphrodite  from  her  sea  couch,  an  oriental 
sunset  with  sky  and  cloud  fading  into  flashing 
star,  moon  and  phosphorescent  wave,  and  we 
sight,  after  coastwise  and  crosswise  sailing, 
Valetta,  Malta,  with  hills,  foliage,  walls  and 
houses  like  pictures  of  Jerusalem.  Thirty-five 
English  war  vessels  looked  at  us  with  their  black 
steel  eyes,  swarthy  natives  eyed  us  curiously,  and 
uiack-veiled  women  with  “faces  covered  for  peni- 
tence of  former  profligacy”  danced  through 
streets  in  maskball  fashion. 

But  Malta  is  not  irreligious  altogether.  Its 
language  is  a mixture  corruption  of  Arabic  and 
Italian.  It  is  willing  to  declare,  “There  is  no 
God  but  Allah,”  but  it  hates  and  hesitates  to  say, 


QUAINT  OLD  MALTA. 


43 


“and  Mohammed  is  his  prophet.”  Malta,  one  of 
the  three  Maltese  islands  belonging  to  Great  Brit- 
ain, is  about  sixty  miles  in  circumference.  It  is 
the  rendezvous  of  the  British  Mediterrenean 
squadron  and  troops  to  the  number  of  five  thou- 
sand. The  land  looked  rocky  and  barren  to  us 
from  ship,  but  on  nearer  view  we  saw  where  un- 
remitting toil  had  terraced  banks,  carried  soil 
and  made  gardens  in  which  vegetables,  oranges 
and  grapes  abounded. 

Casal  Dingli,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  feet 
above  the  sea  level,  looked  down  on  us 
telling  us  we  could  enjoy  a mild  winter 
or  a scorching  summer,  fanned  by  a si- 
rocco in  autumn  which  would  serve  as  a change 
if  we  desired.  Malta’s  history  is  very  misty. 
It  is  said  that  Homer  peopled  it  with  giants  and 
called  it  Hyperia.  Egyptians  came  and  left  their 
mark.  In  1400  B.  C.,  Phoenicians  called  it  Or- 
gygia  and  made  some  pottery.  Greeks,  Romans, 
Carthaginians  and  Saracens  have  fought  for  the 
possession  of  Malta,  and  the  names  of  Regrulus, 
Hamilcar  and  Sempronius  are  found  in  its  war 
annals.  But  all  is  peaceful  now,  and  our  Ameri- 
can consul  smiled  when  he  said : “I  am  happy 

today;  witness  this  can  of  Boston  beans  and  jug 
of  Kentucky  whisky  ; here’s  how” — and  they  did. 

On  the  main  guard  entrance  I read,  “Treaty  of 


44 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Paris,  1814,  the  love  of  the  Maltese  and  the 
voice  of  Europe  confirms  these  islands  to  great 
and  invincible  Great  Brtiain.”  This  is  memor- 
able, but  I shall  remember  Malta  for  several  other 
reasons ; its  old  library,  which  Thackeray  visited 
and  referred  to  with  its  “good  old  useless  books,” 
and  an  Agaricus  insect  which  reduced  to  powder 
what  the  critics  left  of  the  book ; its  big  theater 
capable  of  seating  one  thousand  four  hundred 
people  and  the  glittering  chandeliers  of  crystal ; 
its  barracks’  view  of  bay,  port  and  harbor  in 
which  were  vessels  containing  Lord  Charles 
Beresford  and  Prince  Henry  of  Germanv; 
the  old  governor’s  palace  two  hundred  years 
old;  the  armory  in  which  I saw  the 

trumpet  which  sounded  the  retreat  from 
Rhodes  in  1522;  the  bull  or  act  of  dona- 
tion of  Malta  to  St.  John  of  Jerusalem  in 
1531 ; the  batons  of  Grand  Master  La  Valette  of 
Wagincourt;  rope  cannon;  council  chamber  with 
tapestries  by  Le  Bland  portraying  countries,  ani- 
mals and  flowers ; the  chair  of  Pirillos  which 
Napoleon  and  myself  sat  in ; the  relic  of  a thorn 
of  Christ’s  crown ; the  right  foot  of  Lazarus ; the 
stone  cast  at  St.  Stephen ; the  Beheading  of  St. 
John  by  Caravaggia,  who  makes  the  trickling 
blood  from  the  thigh  spell  M.  A.  C. ; all  this  and 
more  impressed  me.  So  did  a man’s  remark  to 


QUAINT  OLD  MALTA. 


45 


a fakir  vender,  “No,  I won't  buy  souvenirs  of 
places  where  I don’t  have  a good  time.”  As  did 
the  nice  old  minister  who  spent  almost  all  his 
time  on  ship  and  land,  writing  letters  to  each 
member  of  his  church  and  congregation.  As  did 
the  Maltese  cats  which  were  as  frequent  as 
snakes  in  Ireland.  But  what  I most  cannot  for- 
get is  my  embarrassment  when  one  of  our  party 
who  had  lost  her  guide  and  her  head,  came  to  me 
and,  with  a look  of  painful  interest,  asked,  “Ex- 
cuse me,  sir,  do  you  speak  English?” 

Herds  of  goats  are  seen  in  the  city  and  on  the 
sidewalk.  If  there  is  just  room  for  a man  and  a 
goat,  the  man  goes  in  the  street,  and  gives  the 
goat  a chance.  Well,  there  are  goats  and  goats, 
and  these  are  remarkable.  The  driver  herds 
them  and  suddenly  halts  them,  grabbing  them  by 
the  legs  when  he  wants  to  milk  them.  This  is 
the  dairy,  the  milk  is  pure,  (the  animals  are  ex- 
amined daily  by  the  doctor),  and  you  see  the 
process  of  filling  your  cup  or  pail ; a good  in- 
vestment, (for  the  owner  at  least),  if  a goat  gives 
fifteen  pints  three  times  a day  and  the  fluid  re- 
tails for  three  cents  per  pint. 

Other  places  of  interest  are  the  main  guard, 
Borsa  and  the  military  hospital  said  to  contain 
the  largest  room  in  Europe,  being  one  hundred 
and  eighty-five  feet  long,  thirty-five  broad  and 


46 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


thrity-one  high.  The  old  Fort  St.  Elmo,  far- 
tamed  for  its  heroic  defense  against  the  Sara- 
cens, and  eulogized  by  Miss  Evans  in  her  novel ; 
and  the  catacomb  chapel,  a death’s-head  affair 
with  skulls  and  bones  of  two  thousand  bodies  of 
priests  and  Crusaders  from  the  catacombs  buried 
here  in  soil  brought  from  Gethsemane.  The 
arches  and  decorations  are  all  formed  of  bones. 
“Alas!  poor  Yorick!”  On  all  sides  they  stare 
and  say,  “Memento  mori.”  I was  not  afraid  in 
this  chapel,  only  in  a hurry  to  join  my  friends 
who  had  gone  on  before  and  left  me  alone  long 
enough  to  try  to  find  a bony  souvenir.  How  I 
fell  up  the  steps — my  shins  and  kodak  testify. 

As  Sir  Knight  I was  interested  in  the  glory 
of  the  warrior  knights,  St.  John’s  cathedral, 
whose  corner  stone  was  laid  in  1573 — a conven- 
tual church,  and  like  Durham  cathedral,  “half 
church  of  God  and  half  castle.”  It  is  a mass  of 
mosaic,  marble  and  heap  of  heraldric  emblazonry 
which  would  fill  a library;  the  floor  is  paved 
with  the  graves  of  four  hundred  chevaliers,  while 
in  the  crypt  below  I saw  the  tombs  of  twelve 
grand  masters  with  that  of  L’lsle  Adam,  who 
took  first  possession  of  Malta;  a venerable  dome 
of  death  filled  with  skurrying  skeletons,  when 
the  clock  overhead  with  three  dials  and  chime  of 
ten  bells,  marked  the  hour,  day  and  month. 


QUAINT  OLD  MALTA. 


4 7 


The  knight  was  despotic  no  doubt  at  times 
and  in  ways,  made  the  natives  stand  off  the  pave- 
ment on  his  approach,  and  no  woman  was  al- 
lowed on  the  main  street ; yet  his  benevolent 
character  is  undoubted ; he  planted  forests  for 
the  poor,  fed  the  hungry  and  built  hospitals  for 
the  sick  and  was  a good  Samaritan. 

“His  sword  is  rust,  his  bones  are  dust, 

His  soul  is  with  the  saints,  we  trust.” 

Josh  Billings  says,  “There  is  two  things  fur 
which  we  ar  never  quite  prepared,  and  them  two 
things  iz  twins.”  I am  sure  of  that,  for  I have  a 
pair  of  twin  brothers,  known  as  “The  Rev. 
Morrill  Twins,”  and  there  is  another  pair 
in  my  sister’s  home.  So  I was  surprised  to  find, 
in  addition  to  the  city  of  Valetta,  the  town  of 
Vecchio,  seven  miles  away.  We  stumbled  up  a 
stony  hill  to  a gayly  decorated  cathedral  said  to 
occupy  the  site  of  Publius’  house,  the  place  of 
Paul’s  entertainment.  The  church  of  St.  Paola 
is  built  over  the  grotto  which  Paul  occupied  for 
three  months.  Three  minutes  of  its  shape,  size 
and  smell  were  enough  for  me,  but  for  fear  I 
might  forget  it,  I was  offered  one  of  St.  Paul’s 
teeth  by  an  enterprising  curio  dealer  outside  the 
door. 

The  catacombs  were  near  by,  and  we  entered 
there,  wending  and  winding  our  way  through 


48 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


former  homes,  cradles  and  graves.  Our  guide 
was  more  familiar  wtih  St.  Paul’s  history  than 
we  were,  and  with  no  regard  for  time  or  place, 
told  us : “Paul  come  here — Paul  who  break  up 

de  Mohammedan  church.”  That  was  as  near 
right  as  to  call  me  proprietor  of  the  hotel  bearing 
the  sign  reading  “Morrell’s  Hotel,  150  Stradi 
Forni.” 

A Roman  villa  recently  excavated  welcomed 
us  for  a small  fee  with  its  mosaics,  vases,  coins 
and  specimens  of  architecture,  and  we  were  be- 
guiled into  the  souvenir  habit  again.  Blessed 
be  the  Americans.  They  not  only  shall  inhabit 
the  earth,  but  they  have  filled  the  city  with 
visitors  and  thereby  gladdened  the  hearts  of  the 
hotel  keepers  and  tne  many  others  who  await  the 
coming  of  the  tourist  like  the  Jews  that  of  the 
Messiah. 

So  my  guides  say  in  these  or  words  equally 
significant,  and  it  explains  the  warm  hand  and 
heartfelt  reception  which  we  have  received. 

The  “Dunera”  of  Scotland,  No.  1 transport, 
is  in  the  harbor  by  our  side,  with  one  thousand 
three  hundred  men  en  route  to  Egypt.  Their 
band  plays  the  “Star  Spangled  Banner,”  and 
our  band  responds  with  “God  Save  the  Queen.” 
American  and  English  flags  exchange  a wave  of 


LISTENING  TO  THE  SPHINX 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


49 


patriotism  that  clashes  high  and  splashes  the  salt 
tears  in  our  eyes. 

“Adios,”  say  we,  all  of  us,  and  the  big  search- 
lights are  turned  on  our  vessel,  the  white  Medi- 
terranean crests  cling  to  her  sides,  and  a full 
moon  looks  down  upon  some  tired  tourists  who 
have  enjoyed  a great  and  never-to-be-forgotten 
visit. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 

Fve  been  to  Egypt  and  feel  that  anything  less 
than  a mile  high  and  a million  years  old  is  not 
worth  looking  at.  What  are  Independence  hall, 
an  English  cathedral,  the  Roman  forum  or  the 
Acropolis  of  Athens  to  Egypt,  whose  calendar  is 
a block  of  stone  un-numbered  ages  old?  I shall 
be  proof  against  enthusiastic  guides  and  act  as 
my  friend  from  Chicago  did  in  London. 

Englishman — Look  at  that  great  hotel  there. 
It  has  three  hundred  rooms. 

Chicagoan — Don’t  make  such  a fuss  over  noth- 
ing. In  Chicago  we  have  a hotel  five  miles  long 
and  the  waiters  ride  on  horseback  to  take  the 
orders. 

Alexandria!  The  name  sounded  familiar.  I had 


So 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


heard  of  it  several  times  at  school  and  college. 
How  a great  man,  Alexander,  founded  it  in  332 
B.  C.,  and  subdued  lands  as  Cleopatra  conquered 
hearts.  Here  the  graceful  Greek  language  flour- 
ished, here  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes  stood,  here 
the  marble  Pharo’s  lighthouse  shone,  here 
the  world-famed  library  and  museum  were 
visited,  here  the  obelisks  pointed  their  glit- 
tering fingers  skyward,  and  here  the  har- 
em and  grandee  palaces  were  simply  de- 
lightful. Alexandria,  your  boom  must  have 
burst,  you  seem  hardly  worthy  of  your  re- 
markable history.  But  having  come  so  far  I 
thought  I’d  look  you  over,  and  this  is  what  I 
found : Plumed  palms  leaning  against  a tender 

blue  sky,  a tower  lighthouse,  veiled  women,  tur- 
baned  men,  donkeys  and  dates,  flies  and  fleas, 
Pompeys  and  pillars,  mosques  and  minarets,  cam- 
els and  cheese,  beggar  girls  and  bucksheesh  boys. 

We  took  in  the  city  with  a Jehu,  who  made  the 
approach  to  Pompey’s  pillar  at  a rate  that  threat- 
ened to  paint  the  town  with  a more  sanguinary 
hue  than  the  color  of  the  shaft  itself.  What 
statue  stood  on  its  top,  and  whence  came  this 
pillar  originally?  There  is  no  answer  from  the 
dead  past  any  more  than  from  the  dead  in  the 
cemetery  near  by,  on  which  it  looks  silently  and 
sadly.  What  an  old  Mohammedan  cemetery  it 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


51 

is,  too.  No  fence,  a lot  of  stones  decorated  with 
a turban  here  and  there,  or  a splash  of  green 
paint  to  show  that  John  Smith  Mohamed  Ali, 
Esq.,  was  a descendant  of  the  Holy  Prophet,  or 
had  made  a pilgrimage  to  Mecca,  or  had  done 
some  other  equally  important  or  devout  thing. 

Saint  Mark  used  to  preach  here  until  mar- 
tyred by  his  enemies,  or  worried  to  death  by  his 
congregation,  and  has  a cemetery  all  to  himself 
in  the  form  of  the  mosque  of  the  One  thousand 
and  one  Columns.  I was  greatly  interested  in 
the  guide’s  description  of  this  mosque,  but  could 
not  learn  why  they  put  in  a thousand  pillars  for 
a resting  place  and  then  added  one  more.  Good 
measure,  I suppose. 

The  European  quarters  in  stores,  streets  and 
residences  would  do  honor  to  Minneapolis.  The 
Square  of  Mehemet  Ali  is  a monument  to  the 
man  whose  name  it  bears.  A man  who  shook 
off  sultan  control,  became  dictator  of  Egypt  and 
made  the  Mahmoodeah  canal  in  one  year  by  forc- 
ing a million  slaves  to  labor  on  it,  even  though 
twenty-five  thousand  died  on  its  bank  from  over- 
work and  underfeed.  This  is  the  man  who  went 
out  from  Egypt,  subdued  Syria,  and  even  threat- 
ened Constantinople,  till  the  united  powers  of 
Europe  called  him  off. 

My  driver  kept  driving  like  Alexander  Fur- 


52 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


ioso.  In  vain  my  courier  shook  his  fist  at  him 
and  said,  “Slow!”  I quietly  whispered,  “No”  and 
gave  him  a tip  which  the  horses  felt  in  a crack 
from  the  whip  which  kept  us  in  the  lead,  through 
old  and  new  Alexandria,  past  palace  and  dock. 
The  natives  had  a kind  of  John  Gilpin  race  affair 
and  appreciated  it,  too.  Higher  than  his  whip  I 
held  my  umbrella  with  my  silk  American  flag 
floating  from  it.  Arabs  saluted  it  with  “Good/' 
a Frenchman  raised  his  hat  and  said,  “Vive 
FAmerique,”  while  an  Irishman,  a kind  of  section 
hand  overseer  on  the  canal  road,  yelled,  “Three 
cheers  for  the  red,  white  and  blue/’  and  as  soon 
as  we  could  restore  our  surprised  breath,  we 
gave  them  three  cheers  and  a tiger.  Alexander 
never  felt  prouder  in  his  chariot  than  we  in  our 
carriage. 

We  left  Alexandria  in  a twenty-car  train,  after 
I had  taken  a snapshot  at  its  officials,  beggars, 
Arabs,  camels,  and  landing,  with  its  boats,  bag- 
gage, cotton,  bananas,  oranges  and  licorice-water 
vender.  The  last  named  came  to  me  in  his  orien- 
tal garb  of  fez,  shirt  and  bloomers,  while  I was 
talking  to  some  ladies,  rattled  his  metallic  cup 
and  a Scotch  bagpipe  looking  receptacle,  offering 
me  a drink  of  what  he  called,  “Good  for  bellie,,, 
as  he  slapped  his  fat  stomach.  I was  foolish 
enough  to  try  it.  One  drink  was  enough.  The 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


53 


day  was  hot  and  it  had  the  desired  effect.  I’ve  not 
been  thirsty  since  (for  this  beverage).  Though 
jammed  and  locked  in  a kind  of  baggage  car 
coach,  our  conductor  let  us  out  for  a breath  or 
refreshments  at  way  stations,  served  by  dusty 
men  and  dirty  women. 

Lake  Mareotis,  broad  and  shallow,  mirrored 
the  copper  sky  above  and  looked  a huntsman’s 
paradise  with  strange  looking  water  fowl  On 
we  rushed  to  the  profane  town  of  Damanhoor, 
where  Napoleon  had  a close  call  from  being  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Memlooks  in  1798;  over  the  iron 
bridge  crossing  the  Rosetta  branch  of  the  Nile, 
where  the  brother  of  the  khedive  was  drowned  by 
the  train  taking  a plunge  into  the  open  draw, 
to  Kafr  ez  Zyat  in  Egypt’s  delta,  where  we 
halted.  Oranges  and  bananas  were  all  we 
wanted — we  were  not  thirsty  any  more — and  so 
we  had  time  to  notice  the  fertility  of  the  Nile- 
deposited  soil  which  grows  cotton,  sugar  and 
grain  in  the  canal-marked  farms  with  an  abun- 
dance only  surpassed  by  the  dirt  and  life  on  the 
natives. 

We  had  been  brought  up  on  the  farm  and  knew 
something  of  its  cultivation,  but  for  the  next  few 
hours  were  to  study  it  a la  mode  Arabic.  I 
always  hated  to  plow ; it  was  hard  to  hold  the 
handles  so  the  rocks  and  stumps  would  not  throw 


54 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


them  against  my  ribs,  and  to  keep  the  horses  in 
a straight  line  and  the  plow  in  the  ground.  But 
here  it  was  different;  a literal  “soft  snap,”  be- 
cause the  ground  was  dry  and  easily  powdered 
by  a little  crooked  kind  of  a stick,  which  two 
camels  or  buffaloes,  or  a camel  and  a buffalo, 
lazily  dragged  along.  Bible  pictures  of  this  ori- 
ental scene  came  to  my  mind,  and  the  Scripture, 
“Be  not  unequally  yoked,”  a disregard  of  which 
has  made  hard  plowing  and  cultivation  for  many 
families. 

The  chief  occupation  of  these  naked  farmers 
is  not  plowing,  but  watering  the  land.  Things 
will  not  grow  without  water;  it  does  not  rain, 
water  is  scarce,  and  that  may  be  one  reason  why 
the  natives  use  so  little  of  it  for  bathing  pur- 
poses. I counted  scores  of  shadoofs  and  sakiehs. 
You  know  what  they  are  without  going  to  Africa 
to  see  them.  The  shadoof  is  a kind  of  old-fash- 
ioned well-sweep  with  a stone  on  one  end  and 
a watertight  bucket  on  the  other,  resting  on  a 
pivot,  lowered  and  filled  with  water,  and  raised 
and  emptied  into  a little  gutter  and  run  across 
the  part  of  the  farm  that's  dry  and  needs  a drink. 
The  sakieh  is  a cogged  wheel  turned  by  buf- 
faloes. It  works  upon  another  wheel  at  right 
angles,  and  on  it  are  fastened  pots  and  jugs 
which  empty  themselves  in  pools  or  troughs. 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


55 


Still  another  way,  more  primitive  and  strik- 
ing is  seen  when  two  men  stand  in  the  water 
with  a basket  between  them,  which  they  fill  with 
the  regularity  of  a machine,  and  pass  up  and  on 
to  number  three  on  the  bank,  who  sends  it  in 
the  needed  direction.  How  the  poor  fellows 
worked.  How  hot  and  tired  they  were,  how  list- 
less and  hopeless  their  work  seemed,  how  their 
bronzed  black  bodies  glistened  as  the  perspiration 
ran  down ! 

The  people  are  the  Copts,  descended  from  the 
ancient  Egyptians ; fellahs,  or  farmers ; and 
Arabs,  or  conquerors.  They  raise  wheat,  corn, 
rice,  beans,  flax,  cotton,  cucumbers,  melons  and 
dates.  The  principal  animals  are  the  ox,  camel, 
dog,  ass,  crocodile  and  hippopotamus. 

We  rush  on  past  a number  of  mud  villas  and 
stations,  till,  passing  Tookh,  I shout,  “The  Pyra- 
mids !”  I am  the  first  on  the  train  to  discover 
them,  and  am  filled  with  the  pride  of  a Columbus 
or  Balboa.  Instantly  many  heads  crowd  the  car 
windows  and  echo,  “Pyramids!”  With  the  Mo- 
kattaim  hills  on  the  left  and  the  minarets  of  the 
city  in  the  distance,  we  enter  a paradise  of  beau- 
tiful scenery  and  our  train  stops  at  Cairo.  We 
are  met  by  a crowd  of  noisy  Arab  baggage  work- 
men and  donkey  boys,  whose  well  intentioned 
yells,  gestures  and  assistance  make  us  glad  we 


56 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


carry  extra  life  insurance,  hope  to  enter  heaven, 
and  are  under  the  management  of  a friend,  who 
will  make  it  as  comfortable  for  us  as  if  we  were 
at  home. 

Old  and  New  Cairo  are  distinct  cities  in  loca- 
tion, buildings,  manners,  morals,  and  dress,  but 
the  Saxon  is  dominating.  Modern  stores  and 
hotels  are  encroaching,  the  red-coat  is  found  on 
British  soldier  and  Egyptian  guard,  and  we  find 
an  influence  for  good  government  which  natives 
as  well  as  tourists  commend. 

But  I want  a guide  and  not  a guard,  and  Ali 
is  my  man.  A tall,  turbaned,  bloused  boy  fel- 
low, who,  though  not  very  old,  is  brown  and  se- 
date as  the  mummies,  but  not  quite  so  mum,  and 
cordially  promises,  “I  do  you  much  pleasure.” 

The  amusements  offered  were  varied ; I could 
attend  the  opera-house  and  listen  to  Italian  music 
or  see  a French  farce;  take  a turn  at  the  hippo- 
drome and  have  a circus;  or  stop  at  an  open- 
air  play  on  the  Esbekeeyah ; or  if  religiously  in- 
clined, take  in  the  convent  with  its  dancing  der- 
vishes and  barbarous  music;  watch  a snake 
charmer;  drink  cafe  noir  (sweetened  mud) 
in  a little  shop  where  the  waiters  and 
loungers  were  as  thick  as  the  drink;  or 
see  Arabs  gamble  with  dice  and  cards,  much  as 
they  do  in  America;  go  to  a kind  of  vaudeville, 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


57 


where  a stringed  band  of  lady  performers  tried 
to  beguile  us  by  American  airs  and  Persian 
dances  into  buying  drinks  for  them  at  the  rate 
of  one  or  two  dollars  a bottle,  and  poor  stuff  at 
that ; or  meander  through  the  fish  market  at  mid- 
night, where  streets  were  filled  with  citizens  and 
sightseers,  sidewalks  with  roystering  soldiers, 
shops  with  shrewd  traders,  dens  with  drunken 
natives  and  miles  of  houses  with  women  outcasts 
from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  leering,  luring  and 
lustful,  caged  like  beasts  looking  through  iron- 
barred  gratings  which  were  necessary  to  keep 
them  from  murderous  assault  on  the  morals, 
money  and  lives  of  the  passersby. 

“Variety  is  the  spice  of  life.’’  We  had  some 
of  it  in  the  Midway  at  the  Chicago  Fair,  but  the 
real  thing,  the  red  pepper  and  mustard  are  found 
in  Cairo  after  twelve  p.  m. 

All  this  and  more  I saw.  Ali  was  a very  good 
guide  and  guard,  and  did  me  “much  pleasure.” 
We  visited  Cairo’s  curious  bazars,  where  the  most 
fastidious  feminine  shopper  may  find  cloth,  porce- 
lain, glasswork,  slippers,  embroidered  leather, 
jewelry,  precious  stones,  coffee,  if  she  wishes  to 
drink ; tobacco,  if  she  wants  to  smoke,  and  arms 
if  she  must  fight. 

The  drives  of  Cairo  are  delightful,  and  none 
more  so  than  on  Shoobra  avenue,  shaded  by 


58 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


acacias  and  sycamores,  where  for  five  miles  we 
see  humanity  in  all  kinds  of  vehicles  out  for  air- 
ing and  pleasure ; royalty  and  richness  with  a 
Nubian,  Sais,  black  and  bedizened  with  gold  and 
jewels,  running  before  it  like  a John  Baptist  to 
prepare  the  way — or  beggars  and  donkeys,  mer- 
chants and  leering  camels,  till  you  reach  the  pal- 
ace with  its  pavements  and  porticos,  frescoes, 
lake  and  Alhambra-like  columns. 

“Who’s  at  my  window?”  or  Mashrebeeyah,  as 
the  Arabs  say.  What  a dainty  latticed  window 
of  cedar  and  pearl  to  keep  out  light  and  heat, 
the  curious  gaze  of  neighbors  across  the  alley 
street,  and  yourself,  who  would  give  much  to  see 
the  flashing  eyes,  red  lips  and  pearl  teeth  of 
the  girl  who  laughs  at  you,  makes  love  to  you  or 
calls  you  a Byronic  “giaour”  (Infidel). 

We  drove  out  to  the  pyramids  through  a nine- 
mile  line  of  acacias  and  palms  on  a fine  road 
built  by  the  khedive  for  the  Prince  of  Wales  in 
i860,  and  myself.  We  climbed  from  Gizeh  to 
the  pyramids,  forty  feet  above  the  plain,  where 
a mob  of  men  would  have  massacred  us  had  it  not 
been  for  the  sheik,  to  whom  we  paid  paistres  for 
a kind  of  permission  to  ascend  the  pyramid,  and 
for  police  protection  in  the  form  of  three  guides 
whom  we  feed  to  pull  and  push  us  up  about  sixty 
feet  higher  than  the  cross  of  St.  Paul’s  cathedral. 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


59 


We  crawled  up  like  beetles  and  jumped  like 
grasshoppers  and  were  bucksheeshed  for  water 
bottled  in  clay  jars,  coin,  typhoon,  and  scarabs, 
from  base  to  apex.  We  tried  to  be  calm,  classi- 
cal, historical,  and  reverent,  but  “that  old 
guide”  was  heard  on  all  sides.  The  most  fortu- 
nate man  in  our  party  was  Rev.  Mr.  B.,  who  had 
his  shoulder  pulled  out  of  joint  when  he  had  only 
climbed  five  steps  and  was  carried  down  to  the 
hotel  at  the  base  of  the  pyramid,  where  he  could 
eat,  drink  and  listen  to  the  orchestra,  or  visit  with 
Dr.  George  Dana  Boardman,  the  well-known 
Baptist  Christian  scholar  and  gentleman  who 
was  stopping  there  for  his  health. 

Hops,  steps  and  jumps  from  two  to  four  feet 
is  no  joke  whether  you  make  them  in  fifteen  or 
twenty  minutes,  but  at  last  you  are  on  a platform 
thirty  feet  square.  I took  a drink  (flask  of  wa- 
ter), wrote  a postal  card  home,  waved  my  Ameri- 
can flag  to  the  sphinx  at  my  right,  took  a hun- 
dred-mile view,  which  included  beautiful  Cairo, 
the  fertile  Nile,  picturesque  palm  trees,  and  the 
sandy  Sahara  sea  with  its  white-capped  Bedouin 
tents. 

The  “descensus”  was  not  “facilis” — as  Vir- 
gil said  of  something  else.  I thought  it 
was,  tried  to  come  down  alone  and  almost  suc- 
ceeded, but  with  a presto  agitato  that  would  have 


6o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


left  no  “musical  memories.”  Tired  of  my  guides, 
I said  one  “would  hold  me  for  a while.”  Re- 
lustantly  No.  2 unclasped  my  hand,  and  the  other 
guide  holding  my  left  with  his  two,  I tried  to 
step  down  a three-foot  stone,  turned  my  right 
ankle  with  a sprain  that  made  me  lose  my  bal- 
ance, and  would  have  resulted  in  a fall  severer 
than  Minnesota  weather  and  made  this  chronicle 
unnecessary,  had  not  my  faithful  Ali  jerked  me 
back  and  the  other  ally  come  to  the  rescue,  tell- 
ing me  what  a fool  I was  and  how,  if  I had  been 
killed  they  would  have  lost  their  job.  I said 
yes,  gave  them  each  an  extra  half  dollar  and  was 
providentially  placed  on  terra  firma  again. 

On  and  In  was  our  Excelsior  motto.  How 
hot  and  tired  I was,  and  the  guides  still  exasper- 
ating. But  I entered  a hole  forty  feet  above  the 
base,  even  if  to  do  so  were  to  realize  Dante’s 
hell  motto  “Leave  Hope  Behind.”  For  aught  I 
know  he  wrote  that  line  after  making  a journey 
to  the  interior  of  Cheops.  We  crawled  and  slid 
three  hundred  and  forty-seven  feet  until  we  got 
ninety  feet  below  the  base  of  the  pyramid  into  a 
forty-six  by  twenty-seven  by  eleven  foot  room ; 
thanked  God  and  took  courage.  Nearer  the  en- 
trance, sixty  feet,  is  an  upward  passage  leading 
to  the  center  of  the  pyramid,  and  at  a distance 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  one  reaches 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT.  61 

the  great  gallery.  We  found  a well  of  com- 
munication one  hundred  and  ninety-one  feet  deep 
and  later  visited  the  Queen’s  Chamber  (she 
wasn’t  in)  ; climbed  the  great  gallery’s  smooth 
surface  till  we  reached  the  King’s  Chamber  (he 
was  out  also,  so  was  our  magnesium  light). 
Above  this  place  we  learned  that  there  were  some 
other  rooms,  built  to  lessen  the  weight  of  the 
upper  part  of  the  pyramid.  We  knew  enough. 
How  dry  our  throats  and  wet  our  clothes  were; 
how  we  described  incredible  base  slides  and  off- 
hand feats;  how  I helped  one  woman  (afraid  of 
her  guide  in  the  dark),  a forlorn  female,  pulling 
her  out  of  the  narrows  as  one  would  a cat  from 
an  ash  barrel ; and  how  she  resembled  an  um- 
brella turned  inside  out  by  a gust  of  wind — are 
matters  of  tourist  notebook  record. 

The  pyramids  are  beyond  the  power  of 
kodak  or  critic  to  portray.  On  the  shore  of 
the  Great  Desert  sand  sea  they  look  like  a great 
triangle  whose  base  is  in  the  earth  and  apex  in 
the  sky.  So  large  that  if  Cheops  were  hollow 
it  has  been  estimated  that  St.  Peter’s  could  be 
placed  within  it,  dome  and  all,  like  an  ornament 
in  a glass  case.  St.  Paul’s  could  then  in  turn 
be  easily  placed  inside  of  St.  Peter’s,  for  the  top 
of  its  dome  is  one  hundred  feet  lower 
than  the  summit  of  the  great  pyramid. 


62 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Thirteen  acres  of  stone!  There  is  mate- 
rial enough  to  build  a wall  ten  feet  high 
and  one  and  one-half  feet  thick  around  the  whole 
frontier  of  France.  Cui  bono?  For  gymnastic 
feats  by  your  scribe,  for  astronomical  calculation, 
for  an  inspired  standard  of  perfect  measurement, 
or  for  monuments  of  vanity?  No,  but  for 
graves  on  the  “desert  setting  sun”  side  of  the 
Nile,  as  at  Thebes,  a monarch’s  mausoleum. 
How  true  it  seemed,  “All  things  fear  Time,  but 
Time  fears  the  pyramids.” 

But  the  camels  are  coming  and  I want  to  ride 
one.  The  driver  takes  my  money  with  one  hand 
and  with  the  other  strikes  the  beast’s  forelegs 
with  a stick.  Mr.  Camel  kneels  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  strange  sounds  from  his  internal  machin- 
ery ; leers  at  me  with  his  off  eye ; drops  his  lips, 
showing  teeth  which  would  leave  but  a grease 
spot  of  my  anatomy,  then  I board  him  and  the 
ship  of  the  desert  pitches  fore  and  aft,  rights  it- 
self, and  I sail  through  waves  of  yellow  sand  and 
dust  to  the  portals  of  the  Sphinx  temple  and  the 
great  statue  itself. 

The  Temple  of  the  Sphinx,  below  the  figure, 
was  exhumed  by  Mariette.  Within  it  he  found 
nine  statues  of  King  Cephren,  who  built  the  sec- 
ond pyramid,  almost  rivaling  Cheops.  Its  situa- 
tion in  the  Necropolis  of  Memphis  has  led  to  the 


IN  HOARY  OLD  EGYPT. 


63 

conclusion  that  this  shrine  was  used  for  funeral 
obsequies.  Overturned  and  forsaken  are  the  al- 
tars, the  shroud  of  sand  has  swathed  its  portals 
and  “dead!  dead”  is  the  epitaph. 

The  Sphinx  is  different  and  still  alive.  “O, 
sleepless,  changeless,  voiceless,  majestic,  eternal 
sphinx,”  with  human  head  of  intelligence  and 
lion’s  body  of  strength,  carved  from  natural  rock 
at  the  edge  of  the  desert,  from  crown  to  out- 
spread paws,  sixty-four  feet,  and  within  them  an 
altar  to  the  rising  sun.  Stony,  silent,  staring 
into  futurity,  the  sole  survivor  of  races  and  re- 
ligions, image  of  eternity,  what  sacred  thought  is 
thine?  “We  have  our  day  and  cease  to  be,”  but 
thou  dost  outlive  all.  And  yet  we  like  to  be  re- 
membered ; pictures  as  well  as  initials  are  proof 
of  the  desire  for  immortality,  and  so  mounted 
upon  my  camel  steed,  with  the  pyramids  for  a 
background  and  the  sphinx  for  a pedestal,  l had 
my  Tenderfoot  picture  taken ! 

Poor  old  sphinx!  The  French  used  her  nose 
for  a target  and  she  looks  battered  and  wanting 
in  an  expression,  said  to  have  once  been  of  “soft- 
est beauty  and  most  winning  grace.”  But  she 
antedates  Cheops,  and  we  left  her  eyeing  us  with 
stony  indifference,  as  she  had  Egyptian  kings, 
Roman  conquerors,  and  Napoleonic  warriors. 


64 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 

I visited  Helwan,  a Cairo  summer  resort,  well 
named  for  its  sulphur  springs.  I shall  re- 
member it  for  several  reasons.  It  was  the  resi- 
dence of  my  mother’s  brother,  Dr.  Gulian  Lan- 
sing, whose  name  I bear.  He  was  a missionary 
in  Egypt  for  forty  years.  His  body  lies  buried 
in  the  European  cemetery  outside  Old  Cairo, 
but  his  influence  lives  in  the  books  he  wrote,  the 
church  he  built,  the  friends  he  made  and  his  sons, 
Dr.  McCarrol  Lansing,  a prominent  oculist  in 
Cairo  and  John  G.  Lansing,  D.  D.,  America. 

The  doctor  and  family  lived  at  Hel- 
wan. I had  played  with  Carrol  in  York  state 
when  a boy,  and  so  I hurriedly  decided  to  visit 
him,  rushed  to  the  station  and  could  just  gasp 
“Helwan the  porter  bought  my  ticket  and 
pushed  me  into  a first-class  car.  This  was  un- 
necessary, for  a second-class  would  have  done 
just  as  well,  or  even  a third — if  you  could  get 
first-class  company.  It  is  not  so  much  the  sitting 
as  the  surroundings.  Soon  we  pulled  out — we, 
that  is,  myself  and  a first-class  passenger  by  my 
side.  He  was  tall,  bronzed,  well  dressed,  and 
earnestly  reading  a paper  and  smoking  a cigar- 


CLIMBING  CHEOPS 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


65 


ette.  Not  to  choke,  but  to  attract  his  attention  in 
a friendly  way,  I coughed.  He  looked  up,  said 
“pardon.”  I replied  “merci.” 

Alone  in  this  compartment  and  far  from  home, 
the  sun  setting  and  the  pyramids  casting  a dole- 
ful shadow,  I felt  skittish,  and  so  ventured  more 
French.  He  replied  in  Arabic  or  something 
equally  unintelligible;  whether  he  was  from  Par- 
is, doing  business  in  Cairo,  or  an  Arab  working 
for  a French  firm,  I could  not  make  out.  I 
pointed  to  the  passing  scenery,  he  nodded.  I 
said,  “Helwan.”  My  accent  caused  him  to  start; 
he  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  I felt  my  time 
had  come.  He  drew  out  a rice  paper  and  to- 
bacco and  rolled  a cigarette,  which  he  handed 
me. 

Shades  of  Pharaoh  and  Holy  Moses!  I don’t 
smoke  even  cigars,  and  as  for  cigarettes,  had  I 
not  denounced  them  as  “dainty  bits  of  damna- 
tion?” But  life,  perhaps,  was  at  stake,  and  so  I 
took  it  and  a match,  lit  it,  seized  it  between  my 
teeth  and  took  two  big  puffs.  He  smoked  ele- 
gantly, the  result  of  years  of  practice,  and  could 
inhale  and  exhale  deliberately  and  divinely.  I 
tried  to  but  swallowed  the  smoke  so  deep  I 
couldn’t  raise  it  and  choked  and  coughed  and 
cried.  I hurriedly  finished  it  and  he  gave  me 
another;  that  went  in  four  gasping  puffs,  and 


66 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


then  he  offered  me  still  another.  I don’t  know 
what  would  have  happened  if  we  hadn't  reached 
Helwan,  where  my  cousin  was  waiting  for  me. 
Seeing  my  companion  he  called  him  by  a titled 
Arabic  name  and  introduced  me  as  his  relative 
from  America.  All’s  well  that  ends  well,  and  the 
cigarettes  didn’t  make  me  very  sick.  But  I’ve 
often  felt  sorry  for  my  first-class  friend  who 
could  not  understand  a word  of  the  two  lan- 
guages I spoke  with  equal  proficiency  and  cor- 
rectness. 

Returning  to  Cairo  I saw  the  palace  of  Ge- 
zeereh.  It  was  built  by  Ismael  Pasha,  on  an  is- 
land formed  by  a branch  of  tne  Nile.  Pie  was 
a luxurious  fellow  and  spent  money  like  a Louis 
XIV.  There  is  a fine  ball  and  reception  room, 
hall  and  stair-case,  pretty  gardens  and  apart- 
ments where  the  Empress  Eugenie,  emperor  of 
Austria  and  myself  and  friends  were  entertained. 
The  palace  is  used  now  for  a first-class  hotel. 
But  it  was  a little  too  far  away  for  bald-headed 
men  who  wanted  to  be  near  the  city's  center  at 
night  and  so  many  of  my  friends  were  trans- 
ferred to  the  Grand  Continental. 

Old  Cairo  was  not  forgotten.  We  visited  its 
shops  and  lazy  smoking  people  lying  like  in* 
sects  in  the  sun,  its  “Crown  of  Mosques”  and 
Coptic  churches  with  paintings.  I was  held  up 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


67 


in  an  alley-way  by  a beautiful  girl,  who  said,  with 
outstretched  hand,  “Me  bucksheesh  to  give 
God.”  Rhoda  was  near  with  her  Nilometer  to 
mark  the  rise  of  the  annual  inundation 
and  spot  where  Moses  was  found.  Ebers 
makes  Rhoda  a second  Paradise,  but  it  was  Par- 
adise Lost  on  me  with  its  dinky-boat  ferry  and 
dirty  little  hoodlums  who  threw  stones  at  us, 
and  some  sicklv-looking  water  carriers  who  first 
bathed  in  the  water  they  afterwards  dipped  up 
into  goat  and  donkey  skins  to  sell  in  the  city  for 
drinking  and  culinary  purposes.  I felt  as  Doug- 
las Jerrold  once  said:  “If  I were  an  undertaker 

I know  of  several  persons  whom  I could  work 
for  with  considerable  satisfaction.” 

Mosques  are  as  numerous  in  Cairo  as  mos- 
quitoes in  my  native  New  Jersey.  There  may 
be  a thousand;  I visited  five  hundred,  more  or 
less.  Sometimes  I took  off  my  slippers  at  the 
outer  door,  and  at  others  I wore  a kind  of  moc- 
casin over  my  tourist  shoes  and  shuffled  and 
slid  over  the  old  floors,  wondering  how  in  the 
name  of  everything  sacred  I could  profane  any- 
thing with  a good  sole  like  mine.  In  Cairo 
you  must  do  as  the  Cairenes  do  and  I wanted 
to  “do  them”  more  than  once. 

I visited  the  famous  tombs  of  the  Caliphs.  The 
tracery  was  broken  and  the  alabaster  blackened. 


68 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


“Sic  transit  gloria  mundi;”  Caliphs’  tombs  yes- 
terday are  homes  of  Egyptian  beggars  and  bats 
today. 

The  citadel  is  Cairo’s  show  place  and  special 
object  of  interest.  It  is  made  of  stones  from  one 
of  the  pyramids.  We  crawled  up  the  winding 
path  leading  to  It  and  entered  its  elliptical  gate. 
On  a red  letter  day,  four  hundred  and 
fifty  Memlooks  and  their  leader  were  killed. 
One  man  escaped  by  spurring  his  horse 
from  the  terrace.  I know  he  did,  for 
Ali  showed  me  the  prints  of  the  horse’s  hoofs 
as  they  struck  the  walls  in  making  the  leap. 
There  is  a splendid  view  -overlooking  the  city, 
lower  Egypt,  with  its  domes  and  delta,  pyramids, 
palaces,  obelisk,  desert  and  Nile,  which  rocked 
Moses  to  sleep  and  played  erotic  music  for 
Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

The  Mosque  of  Mohammed  Ali,  one  of  the 
most  costly,  is  modeled  after  St.  Sophia,  with  its 
cupolas,  domes  and  tapering  minarets  and  lining 
of  alabaster.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  one  of  Mr. 
Ruskin’s  “Lamps  of  Architecture”  has  gone  out, 
for  we  meet  the  “lie”  of  parts  of  columns  painted 
to  look  like  alabaster.  The  body  of  Mohammed 
Ali  lies  near  by,  in  state,  and  the  tombs  of  the 
Memlooks  just  yonder. 

I had  been  separated  from  my  party  that 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


69 


morning  and  took  a special  carriage  and  guide 
to  this  mosque.  Joseph’s  well  was  near  by  and 
so  I ran  up  the  hill  to  it,  and  down  the  winding 
stairs  in  it,  wondering  at  its  fifteen  feet  width 
and  depth  of  nearly  three  hundred  to  the  Nile 
level.  I found  donkeys  raising  the  water  to  the 
top  by  an  endless  chain  with  little  pails  attached 
and  was  sorry  one  was  not  large  enough  to  put 
me  in  and  lift  me  to  the  top. 

The  Gizeh  museum  is  the  most  fascinating  and 
valuable  thing  in  the  city  to  the  antiquarian.  It  is 
the  monument  of  Mariette  Bey’s  labors  in  dig- 
ging up  and  deciphering  Egypt’s  old  records 
from  temples,  tombs,  statues,  sphinxes  and  sera- 
peum.  His  study  cost  him  his  life,  but  he  will 
live  long  after  his  statue  crumbles. 

The  golden  age  of  Egyptian  art  culture,  poli- 
tics and  religion  was  not  in  Rameses  II.’s  time, 
but  Cheops’  and  Menes  was  no  barbarian  but 
a king  of  some  civilization,  the  finished  product 
of  a long  line  of  ancestors. 

Sphinxes  stare,  granite  growls,  scarabs  crawl, 
pottery  pleases,  mummies  meekly  look  in  your 
face  with  pitiful  mien,  while  as  a commentary  on 
the  “abiding  word”  Rameses  II. — Israel’s  op- 
presser,  Moses’  opposer,  lies  with  folded  hands 
as  if  praying  dumbly  for  forgiveness  for  the  great 
wrong  done  God’s  chosen  people.  More  impres- 


70 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


sive  than  cathedral  service  was  the  time  spent  in 
this  museum.  It  was  a sudden  shock  to  be 
asked  to  lunch  outside  in  the  garden  beyond 
Mariette’s  statue,  and  be  forced  to  investigate 
antiquarian  bread,  butter,  chicken  and  fruit, 
which  may  have  been  exhumed  from  the  royal 
tombs.  The  only  redeeming  feature  was  a kind 
of  drink  corked  in  bottles  which  foamed  when 
popped,  and  had  the  odor  and  taste  of  hops.  Of 
course  it  wasn’t,  but  when  we  got  through  there 
was  none  left. 

One  thing  in  the  museum  I remember  as  dis- 
tinctly as  Poe  did  the  raven.  It  was  a wooden 
statue  known  as  “The  Village  Chief,”  and  called 
so  by  the  Arabs,  because  of  its  resemblance  to 
their  master.  But  my  tourist  friends  said  it 
looked  more  like  me  than  him,  and  if 
you  want  to  know  what  that  is  there  are 
several  of  my  photos  to  tell  you.  It  is  only  four 
thousand  years  old.  Was  he  my  ancestor,  from 
whom  I had  transmigrated?  His  eyes  were 
white  quartz  and  the  iris  of  darker  stone,  with  a 
silver  nail  for  a pupil,  covered  with  lids  of 
bronze.  Bartolini  was  an  excellent  sculp- 
tor, ranking  next  to  Canova,  but  if  my 
friend,  "Bart,”  of  the  Minneapolis  Journal, 
will  go  to  Cairo  and  make  a drawing  of  that 
wooden  man,  he  will  achieve  fame  and  infamy 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


7 1 


at  once.  I wonder  if  the  overseer  was  bright, 
even  if  not  handsome?  I shall  never  forget  how 
I felt  when  I looked  into  his  face.  Even  now 
I often  jump  with  fright  at  remembrance  of  that 
statue,  and  say,  with  the  darkie,  “Is  dis  me  or 
not  me,  or  has  th.e  Debbil  got  me?” 

Heliopolis,  the  Greek  city  of  the  sun,  is  a city 
often  mentioned  in  the  Old  Testament,  under 
the  name  of  On.  Here  Joseph  is  said  to  have 
married  the  daughter  of  the  priest,  and  Moses, 
Pythogoras  and  Euclid  received  instruction. 
There  was  a fine  temple  once  to  which  rich  gifts 
were  made  by  Egyptian  kings.  Yet  all  that  is 
left  of  former  greatness  and  grandeur  is  a ma- 
jestic obelisk,  on  whose  sides  are  hieroglyphic 
hymns  to  the  gods,  in  letters  once  filled  with 
gold,  bright  as  the  sun  ray’s  which  it  symbolized. 
Returning  to  Cairo  we  halt  before  the  famous 
sycamore  known  as  the  virgin’s  tree,  within 
whose  sacred  trunk  Mary  and  the  Christ  child 
are  said  to  have  found  refuge  during  the  flight 
into  Egypt. 

The  palm  is  a beautful  tree,  straight,  branch- 
less, often  rising  one  hundred  feet.  It  furnishes 
the  Arabs  with  food,  drink,  medicine,  shelter, 
clothes  and  fyel.  I heard  there  was  a new  use 
for  it  every  day  in  the  year,  and  that  the  natives 


72 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


celebrated  its  utility  in  prose  and  verse.  They 
take  the  palm  for  tall  stories. 

Mariette  made  Memphis,  the  oldest  city  in 
Egypt,  and  capital  of  Menes,  and  large  enough 
to  recpiire  a half  day’s  journey  to  cross  it  from 
North  to  South.  His  research  here  found  five 
thousand  statues  and  tablet  inscriptions  and 
two  thousand  sphinxes,  now  found  in  the 
world’s  famous  galleries.  What  remains  is 
sand,  silence,  stately  palm  trees,  occasion- 
al tourists,  with  natives,  camels  and  donkeys, 
and  the  big  statue  of  Rameses  II. — dust  to  dust, 
prone  on  its  sculptured  face,  too  large  to  be  up- 
lifted or  removed. 

Luxor,  Thebes  and  Karnak  are  six  hundred 
miles  from  the  Mediterranean  sea,  but  they  were 
the  Mecca  of  my  pilgrimage.  The  railroad  ac- 
commodation was  not  Pullmanic.  We  bought 
water  when  we  could  not  steal  it.  The  weather 
grew  cold  enough  at  2 a.  m.  for  ulsters  and 
blankets,  and  the  dust  settled  on  us  till  we  rose 
from  our  beds  in  the  morning  like  bodies  ex- 
humed from  the  sands. 

I was  domiciled  at  Pagnon’s  hotel.  This 
was  my  first  Oriental  experience.  1 found 
no  soap  in  my  room,  and  only  enough  water  in  a 
little  earthen  jar  to  wash  my  face.  I shook  my 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


73 


fist  at  a black-skinned,  turbaned  servant,  who 
brought  more  “maia,”  water,  but  no  soap.  I took 
some  from  a traveler’s  valise  and  gave  him  what 
was  left  (not  much);  went  out  to  breakfast  and 
gorged  on  coffee,  rolls  and  omelet.  Our  com- 
panions were  little  birds — I wanted  one  on  toast 
— which  flew  in  'out  out  the  door  and  lighted  on 
our  tables  and  backs  of  chairs.  From  the  win- 
dow was  a picture  of  the  Nile,  village,  palms  and 
ruins  that  no  money  could  buy. 

My  guide  here  was  “Ki  Yam,”  whose  card  de- 
clared he  was  the  “best  in  the  city.”  I took  him 
on  faith  and  at  sight  and  can  recommend  him  for 
superior  service.  He  gave  the  names  of  former 
patrons,  showed  us  all  the  curios  of  the  hotel’s 
big  garden  and  introduced  us  to  a dozen  curio 
stores,  where  merchants  waylaid  us  every  time 
we  came  near. 

But  we  are  going  to  Thebes.  It  gets  hot  very 
early  here,  and  so  one  morning  we  were  roused 
at  4 o’clock,  ate  an  Oriental  lunch,  were  rowed 
over  the  Nile  in  a tubby  boat.  It  could  not  land, 
and  this  made  it  necessary  for  brawny,  bare- 
legged rascals  to  pick  us  and  the  women  up,  put 
us  on  their  backs,  frog  style,  wade  with  us  to 
the  shore  and  then  demand  bucksheesh.  Then 
followed  a scene.  As  the  “Asyrian  came  down 
like  a wolf  on  the  fold,”  so  a hundred  donkey  boys 


74 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


besought  us  and  belabored  each  other  in  the  mad 
effort  to  hire  out  their  donkeys.  They  yelled 
and  fought,  cried  and  crowded,  until,  by  some 
unknown  legerdemain,  I found  myself  on  Jum- 
bo’s back,  a ruin  of  my  former  self,  en  route  for 
the  ruins,  famed  in  song  and  story. 

Over  there  I made  one  valuable  discovery, 
which  entitles  me  to  a place  with  Champillon,  of 
Rosetta  stone  fame.  The  hieroglyphs  look 
just  like  my  penmanship,  which  has  puzzled  to 
profanity  so  many  compositors  and  readers.  I 
may  have  been  the  “heathen”  that  they  called  me, 
and  if  so,  an  Egyptian  in  a pre-existent  state  be- 
fore I arrived  at  America.  If  my  critics  will  visit 
Egypt  and  decipher  its  old  monuments  my  hand 
writing  will  be  “dead  easy”  and  their  occupa- 
tion will  be  gone. 

On  this  west  side  we  visited  the  Tombs  of  the 
Kings  in,  “Bab-el-Moluk,  Tomb  of  Seti  I.,  called 
Belzonis  after  the  discoverer  with  its  fresh  and 
perfect  looking  paintings;  of  Rameses  III.,  called 
Belzoni’s,  with  its  high  relief  figures  at  the  en- 
trance; of  Rameses  IV.,  with  its  high  ceiling  and 
granite  sarcophagus;  of  Rameses  IX.,  with  the 
famous  pictures  representing  resurrection  after 
death;  and  of  Rameses  VI.,  with  its  great  length 
and  astronomical  figures  on  the  ceiling. 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


75 


We  promenaded  through  the  Ramesium  or 
Memnonium,  unrivaled  for  its  architecture.  It 
was  built  by  Rameses  II.,  whose  fame  is  lettered 
on  its  walls.  Its  demolished  pylons  and  sculp- 
tures of  battles,  its  court  with  figures  of  Ram- 
eses and  attributes  of  Osiris,  and  the  most  gi- 
gantic statue  in  Egypt,  cut  from  a solid  block  of 
granite,  once  seen  are  not  soon  forgotten. 

We  interviewed  the  Colossi,  those  statues  of 
King  Amunoph  III.  as  faithful  as  the  Roman 
guard  of  Pompeii.  Fifty-two  feet  in  height, 
they  stand  as  they  did  before  the  ancient  temple. 
Mennon  was  vocal  that  afternoon.  I stood  be- 
side it,  with  no  priest  to  climb,  conceal  himself  or 
chant  within,  or  sun  to  warm  the  dew-chilled, 
earthquake-cracked  stone. 

I was  entertained  at  the  Temple  of  Rameses 
III.,  second  only  to  Karnak  in  grandeur,  with  its 
military  monument,  palace,  decoration  of  Ram- 
eses presenting  his  captives  to  the  gods,  and 
painted  specimens  of  races  inhabiting  Asia,  Ly- 
bia  and  Soudan. 

What  a marvelous  court,  with  its  seven  Asa- 
ride  columns,  suggestive  of  funeral  services,  and 
eight  columns  with  papyrus  capitals,  beyond 
whose  granite  portals  we  entered  a second  pylon 
into  the  inner  court  of  pillars  and  bright-colored 
sculptures. 


76 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Thebes  in  its  monumental  record  was  a 
marvelous  city.  Sad  words  “what  might  have 
been"  if  time  and  vandal  had  spared,  when 
even  now  its  walls  are  found  supported  by  stat- 
ues thirty  feet  high,  whose  stolid  stare  and  folded 
arms  look  silently  down  on  a fallen  brother’s 
statue  of  King  Rameses,  which  measures  twenty- 
six  feet  across  his  polished  granite  shoulders.  If 
quarried,  how  carried  here  and  set  up?  What 
Lucifer  thoughts  caused  him  to  be  cast  down? 

What  a time ! How  my  old  and  sick  driver 
could  run  all  day  by  Jumbo  donkey’s  heels, 
gouge  his  sides  and  steer  his  tail  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  a guttural  “ah-yereglah”  cluck  and 
not  kill  the  donkey,  him  or  myself,  I’ve  never 
learned.  Dear  little  Egyptian  donkeys,  mouse- 
colored  and  frowsy  looking,  long-haired  or 
clipped,  white,  dirty  or  painted  with  zebra  stripes, 
long  ears,  little  feet  and  big,  braying  voice;  how 
patient  and  serviceable  you  are.  If  Luther  be- 
lieved there  were  to  be  horses  in  heaven;  if  kind 
preachers  put  the  asses  of  their  congregation  in 
Paradise;  if  ancient  religion  and  modern  art  have 
apotheosized  the  bull,  cow,  dog  and  cat,  let  me 
take  off  the  big  saddle  and  foolish  brass  and 
glass  ornaments  from  thy  neck  and  garland  thee 
with  flowers  of  respect  and  affection,  and  give 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


77 


thee  plenty  to  eat  and  drink  and  an  eternity  of 
rest  to  which  thou  are  entitled. 

A look  at  Luxor,  which  looks  on  us  as  the 
pyramids  did  on  Napoleon’s  soldiers,  and  I shall 
end  this  Egyptian  chapter.  Luxor  means  “pal- 
aces,” and  was  a luxurious  place.  The  barbar- 
ians wondered  at  it;  Homer  sang  about  it,  and 
in  its  commanding  ruins  it  burns  its  memory  in- 
to the  traveler’s  brain. 

Next  to  the  pyramids  the  Temple  of  Karnak  is 
the  world’s  greatest  ruin.  Its  two-mile  avenue 
approach  must  have  been  lined  with  two  thou- 
sand colossal  sphinxes,  whose  crouching,  crumb- 
ling fragments  stretch  towards  you  as  to  the 
worshipers  of  long  ago.  Beyond  is  the  portal  sev- 
enty feet  high,  and  under  it  the  multitudes 
marched.  You  enter  and  gaze  on  templed  ruins 
a mile  and  a half  in  circumference;  walls  eighty 
feet  up;  towers  one  hundred  and  forty  feet  high, 
while  obelisk  fingers,  clean  cut  in  this  preserva- 
tive climate  of  the  Nile,  point  to  an  inscription  on 
the  wall  where  Rameses  asks  help  from  the  gods 
because  he  had  built  them  “eternal  mountains.” 

Think  of  obelisks  forty  centuries  old ! Moul- 
dered the  hands  that  carved  them  from  the  vol- 
canic granite — prone  or  perpendicular,  plain  or 
letter*  d,  one  reads  a wonderful  story.  As  the 
Yosen  ite  trees  grew  larger  as  we  approached 


78 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


them,  until  what  was  large  was  small  in  compar- 
ison, ; o here  the  columns  grew  as  we 
threaded  the  temple’s  main  avenue.  One 
hall  ha<  1 one  hundred  and  thirty-four  col- 
umns, si  me  thirty-six  feet  in  circumference  and 
sixty-six  feet  high,  supporting  solid  blocks 
forty  feet  long,  all  crowned  with  giant  lotus 
leaves,  which  gave  a grace  to  these  granite 
mountain?.  Would  you  insult  or  strike  old  age? 
Yet  vandals  have,  and  one  of  the  columns  they 
tried  to  overturn,  but  it  only  leans.  Beautiful  in 
their  ruins,  what  must  they  have  been  with  blue- 
domed  ro<  f and  gold-starred  ceiling  and  inscrip- 
tions of  p aise  to  their  deities  when  their  stony 
lips  spoke  adoration! 

Egypt  has  gods  by  the  wholesale.  Wilkinson 
stops  at  seventy-three  and  says  there  are  more. 
I saw  some  representations  of  first  and  second- 
class  deities  and  they  all  looked  like  the  devil.  Ra, 
the  “Sun  God,”  was  a royal  deity;  he  had  a 
hawk’s  head  with  a disk  on  end  for  a hat, 
trimmed  with  a few  plumes  or  a snake  charm. 
The  beetle  (scarabaeus)  was  one  of  his  chief  em- 
blems. I have  one  taken  from  the  body  of  a 
mummy  by  the  khedive  and  given  to  Dr.  Gulian 
Lansing,  who  gave  it  to  me,  his  namesake.  It 
is  of  an  emerald  green  color,  bears  the  royal  car- 
touch,  and  -is  good  for  another  five  thousand 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


79 


years.  They  used  to  worship  the  powers  of  na- 
ture, especially  the  sun;  the  moon  was  set  way 
back;  evil  deities  were  not  forgotten  and  various 
live  animals  were  especially  venerated  in  certain 
towns.  Rawlinson  suggests  that  the  many  gods 
of  the  popular  mythology  were  mere  names, 
“personified  attributes  of  one  true  deity,  or  part 
of  the  nature  which  he  had  created,  considered 
as  informed  and  inspired  by  him.” 

When  it  comes  to  show  their  ceremonials  were 
splendid.  Buildings  painted  and  sculptured  ex- 
ceeded all  others  in  grandeur.  The  image  of 
the  god  was  placed  on  a central  shrine,  sur- 
rounded by  chambers  of  the  priests,  courts,  col- 
onades,  sculptures,  sphinxes  and  obelisks  and 
towers  at  each  side  of  the  entrance.  Costly  cer- 
emonies were  conducted,  incense  rose,  hymns  of 
prayer  and  praise  were  sung. 

The  Egyptian  may  have  had  curious  and  con- 
fused notions  in  religion,  but  he  didn’t  believe 
that  this  world  or  the  next  would  be  the  same  to 
the  sinner  as  to  the  saint.  Birch  says  his  life 
was  “to  be  pious  to  the  gods,  obedient  to  the 
wishes  of  his  sovereign,  affectionate  towards  his 
wife  and  children,  giving  bread  to  the  hungry, 
drink  to  the  thirsty,  clothes  to  the  naked,  oil  to 
the  wounded,  and  burial  to  the  dead.”  We  need 
a revival  of  an  Egyptian  “old  time  religion.” 


8o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Undertakers  were  busy  in  those  days  as  now, 
only  they  embalmed,  and  the  office  was  regarded 
as  sacred.  They  emptied  the  body  of  its  vitals, 
filled  it  with  drugs,  anointed  the  skin,  soaked  it 
in  nitre,  wrapped  it  in  linen  bandages,  stuck  it 
with  gum,  put  it  in  a coffin  and  there  you  are, 
or  were,  or  could  be  set  up  or  carried  around 
like  so  much  cordwood  by  your  relatives.  Very 
handy. 

At  death  the  Egyptian  believed  his  soul  went 
to  the  “Hall  of  Truth  ” and  was  judged  in  the 
presence  of  Osiris.  A pair  of  scales  was  brought 
out,  in  one  end  was  placed  the  emblem  of  truth, 
in  the  other  a vase  of  the  man’s  good  deeds.  If 
they  were  enough  to  weigh  down  the  scale,  his 
happy  soul  entered  the  “Boat  of  the  Sun,”  and 
was  ferried  to  the  “Pools  of  Peace.”  If  he  had 
been  long  on  creed  and  short  *on  conduct,  his 
miserable  soul  was  sentenced  to  transmigration 
in  bodies  of  unclean  animals.  If  that  didn’t 
make  him  better  Osiris  just  annihilated  him.  If 
he  had  been  good  the  four  ape-faced  genii  singed 
off  his  little  faults  and  made  him  the  companion 
of  Osiris  for  a little  visit  of  three  thousand  years 
after  which  the  soul  flew  back  to  its  mummy, 
rose  from  the  dead  and  tried  it  again  on  earth. 
This  program  was  repeated  until  the  cycle  was 


CROSSING  THE  JORDAN 


RAMBLING  IN  EGYPT. 


81 


complete  and  he  was  rewarded  by  being  absorbed 
into  the  divine  essence  whence  be  came. 

Pliilae,  the  beautiful  island,  is  sacred  to  Isis, 
the  burial  place  of  her  husband,  Osiris,  who  was 
embalmed  in  Egypt’s  most  sacred  oath,  “By  him 
who  sleeps  in  Philae.”  I was  anxious  to  rest  in 
“Pharaoh’s  bed,”  beautifully  built  by  Tiberius. 
Then  there  is  the  Temple  Abou-Simbel,  carved 
into  the  river’s  rocky  hillside  for  a length  of 
three  hundred  feet,  with  statues  whose  fore- 
fingers are  four  feet  long.  Who  was  this  mighty 
Angelo  who  gave  time  and  distance  for  art  fac- 
tors? 

We  know  but  little.  Maspero  has  said: 
“Egypt  is  far  from  being  exhausted.  Its  soil 
contains  enough  to  occupy  twenty  centuries  of 
workers,  for  what  has  come  to  light  is  compar- 
atively nothing.” 

Sunday  afternoon  I was  tired,  hot  and  dusty, 
and  wanted  a bath.  The  Nile  was  inviting.  The 
boatmen  wondered  why  I did  not  bathe  by  the 
bank  if  I had  to  bathe.  Their  immodest  scruples 
were  overcome  when  I gave  them  good  money 
to  row  me  to  the  west  shore.  Money  talks  all 
languages  and  a gold  skeleton  key  opens  all 
hearts.  I left  my  clothes  in  the  boat  with  my 
watch  and  pocketbook.  The  black  rascals  mo- 


82 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tioned  me  to  take  a long  swim  or  dive  far  down 
or  stay  under  long.  But  it  was  too  dangerous. 
They  are  born  thieves  and  thugs  and  I feared 
them  more  than  I did  the  crocodiles.  So  I kept 
one  eye  on  them  and  the  other  on  the  pets  of  the 
Nile  and  had  a royal  bath  in  the  royal  river.  I 
floundered  around  and  fished  to  see  if  I could 
find  some  buried  souvenir.  All  I gathered  was 
mud.  Dr.  Murch,  the  American  missionary, 
said  I was  lucky  to  get  off  so  lightly. 

The  Nile  is  the  main  artery  of  Egyptian  life. 
It  symbolized  life  in  contrast  to  the  desert  with 
its  death.  One  is  not  surprised  that  it  has  been 
deified  and  that  the  traveler  looks  with  pleasure 
on  the  statue  of  the  Father  of  the  Nile  in  the 
Vatican,  reclining  upon  a small  sphinx  with  six- 
teen sportive  pigmies  playing  on  his  arms  and 
legs,  representing  the  river’s  annual  rise  of  six- 
teen cubits. 

Historically,  Egypt  was  back  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  the  mother  of  art  and  cradle  of  invention. 

Biographically,  she  was  the  home  of  Rameses 
and  Pharaoh,  Moses  and  Joseph,  Alexander  the 
Great  and  the  Ptolomies,  Caesar,  Antony  and 
Cleopatra. 

Sentimentally,  she  was  as  mysterious  as  the 
pyramids,  sphinx,  palm  and  Nile. 

Mentally,  she  was  the  garden  of  astronomy, 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


83 


philosophy,  architecture,  sculpture  and  painting. 

Religiously,  she  was  the  sanctuary  of  a learned 
priesthood,  elaborate  system  of  theology,  and 
inspiring  ritual  for  the  dead. 

Egypt  has  intoxicated  me,  the  sculptured  leaf 
of  the  lotus  flower  which  gives  grace  and  airiness 
to  the  granite  columns,  has  entered  my  blood. 
I,  too,  am  a lotus  eater. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  HOLY  CITY. 

Joppa  has  a hard  name  among  sailors  because 
she  offers  rocks  and  wind-swept  surf  to  land  in 
instead  of  a good  harbor.  But  she  was  kind  to 
us,  and  sturdy  natives  in  big  boats  on  a smooth 
sea  rowed  us  to  shore.  I had  no  dread  of  being 
ground  to  kindling  wood  or  capsizing  or  falling 
into  a big  fish’s  mouth  as  Jonah  did  here.  My 
only  fear  was  that  the  salt  water  splashed  on  a 
new  box  coat  would  put  leopard’s  spots  on  it 
which  could  not  be  changed.  I was  anxious  to 
land  and  see  Sister  Dorcas,  for  I was  out  at  the 
elbows  and  several  other  places  and  she  had  a 
reputation  for  making  and  mending  garments 
for  the  poor.  But  she  was  gone  and  none  of  the 


*4 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


family  in,  so  I left  my  card  and  her  house  a 
sorry  sight.  Judging  from  the  appearance  of  the 
ragamuffins  who  followed  me,  no  sewing  is  done 
nowadays,  and  if  cleanliness  is  Christian,  Joppa 
ought  not  to  be  included  in  a journey  in  the  Holy 
Land.  But  it  has  to  be — Jerusalem  via  Joppa. 
“Was  your  wife  reconciled  to  her  last  sickness  ?” 
asked  a sympathetic  inquirer.  “She  had  to  be. 
She  vas  dead.” 

Joppa  is  not  much  more  than  a pile  of  stones 
in  an  orange  grove  today,  but  yesterday  she  was 
quite  important.  On  one  of  those  horns  of  rocks 
yonder  Andromeda  was  chained ; here  Hiram, 
king  of  Tyre,  floated  his  cedars  of  Lebanon  for 
Solomon’s  Temple;  there  stands  the  house  on 
whose  top  Peter  prayed  and  saw  a sheeted  vision 
of  charity ; later  Constantine  saw  fit  to  make  it 
the  seat  of  the  bishop’s  see ; and  last  and  worst, 
Napoleon  stormed  the  city  and  slaughtered  his 
Turkish  prisoners. 

Joppa’s  streets  (or  alleys)  are  narrow  and 
filled  with  camels,  donkeys,  beggars  and 
smells.  I went  to  the  alleged  house  of  Si- 
mon the  tanner,  dyed  my  hands  in  the  vat, 
climbed  to  the  roof  and  had  my  picture  taken — 
my  Peter’s  vision  being  the  blue  sea,  the  rocks, 
the  stone-piled  city  and  big  steamer  in  the  dis- 
tance. Courier  Beyeres  almost  had  a fist  fight 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


85 


with  a big  boy  who  fell  in  love  with  me  and 
wanted  to  be  my  guide.  The  discarded  lover 
threw  a stone  at  the  boy  I did  hire  to  take  me 
to  the  depot — depot  because  camels  are  out  of 
date.  Once  aboard  the  train  and  seated  by  Jos- 
eph Finan,  the  chief  of  Lydia,  we  had  cigarettes, 
flowers  and  big  delicious  oranges  galore.  I 
think  I ate  four  dozen.  But  my  big  coat  was 
missing — I knew  I’d  need  it  and  could  prove  it. 
It  was  like  Grimes — “all  buttoned  down  be- 
fore.” Just  as  the  train  was  pulling  out, 
a native  rushed  to  my  compartment,  threw  the 
coat  to  me,  saying,  “Givee  goodee  manee  buck- 
sheesh,”  and  I did,  a shilling  and  got  off  cheap  at 
that — and  ate  more  oranges. 

Joppa  is  less  than  forty  miles  from  Jerusalem 
but  there  are  more  than  forty  volumes  of  fra- 
grant history  in  that  distance. 

Ex-American  consul,  Herbert  Clark,  pointed 
out  gardens  of  golden  oranges  beyond  the  fabled 
Hesperides ; Sharon’s  plain,  fragrant  with  Bible 
roses  and  memories ; Wely  with  a well  called 
Abraham’s  fountain ; Ramleh  the  ancient  camel 
caravan  turnpike  road  and  later  camping  ground 
of  Crusader  and  Napoleon;  Askelon,  and  Gath 
of  giant  Sampson  fame  and  brook  of  David’s 
sling-stone  story ; Lydda,  where  Peter  healed  the 
palsied  Aeneas; Valley  of  Ajalon  where  the  moon 


86 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


stood  still  and  Joshua  subdued  the  Amorites ; 
Neby  Samwil,  Samuel’s  birthplace  and  the  site 
of  ancient  Mizpeh ; Ain  Karim,  the  birth  place 
of  John  the  Baptist;  the  Valley  Kolonech,  con- 
nected with  the  ark  of  triumpn;  the  road  asso- 
ciated with  Christ’s  walk  with  the  disciples  to 
Emmaus,  pilgrimages  of  devout  Israelites,  tramp 
of  Roman  legions  and  cry  of  crusaders.  Then 
came  the  city  of  song  and  story — Jerusalem. 

We  raced  through  the  narrow  streets  of  Jeru- 
salem till  we  came  to  Lloyd’s  German  hotel 
where  the  weather  strips  were  heaps  of  sand  to 
keep  the  rain  out  and  the  stoves  to  warm  and 
dry  us  were  pagoda-looking  porcelain  things,  and 
the  piano  had  been  thumped  out  of  tune,  and  the 
cooking  was  good  when  you  got  it,  for  the  hands 
were  slow  and  “hasty  pudding”  was  not  on  the 
bill  of  fare ; and  my  stone-floored,  iron-grated, 
feather-blanketed,  bolstered  bedroom  opened  into 
an  inner  court  filled  with  beautiful  fragrant  flow- 
ers, kept  fresh  and  moist  by  rain  which  fell  in- 
cessantly from  a roofless  square  above,  to  the 
time  of  a male  quartette  of  German  voices  which 
lulled  me  to  rest  in  Vaterland  airs. 

It’s  springtime  in  Jerusalem  and  the  rain,  “it 
raineth  every  day.”  My  rubbers  were  on  ship- 
board thirty  miles  away,  with  no  Sheridan  to 
bring  them  and  no  chance  to  buy  any  more.  But 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


87 


I was  in  the  Holy  City  and  could  afford  to  have 
wet  feet  for  a month  or  no  feet  at  all ; just  wings 
of  curiosity  would  do,  for,  whether  I was  animal 
or  angel,  I could  not  tell. 

“’Come,”  said  my  guide,  Selim,  a slim,  shrewd, 
scholarly  fellow,  who  was  full  of  facts  and  knew 
how  to  impart  them  in  half  a dozen  languages. 
“Come  to  the  Jew’s  wailing  place,  for  its  Friday, 
the  only  day  they  cry.”  A stranger,  sadder  sight 
I never  saw ; the  old  wall  of  the  temple,  the  crev- 
ices filled  with  grass  and  flowers  or  nails  and 
pebbles  sent  by  devotees  who  could  not  come ; 
throngs  of  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  shabbily 
or  royally  dressed,  hands  filled  with  sacred  books 
or  psalter,  reading,  praying,  crying,  muttering, 
swaying  to  and  fro,  all  lamenting  the  downfall 
and  forsaken  condition  of  their  deserted  city — 
all  this  made  a picture  time  can  never  fade.  The 
Jew  has  much  to  be  proud  of  in  religion,  liter- 
ature, music,  finance,  philosophy,  drama  and  phil- 
anthropy. My  prayer  is  that  they  may  see  Christ 
as  the  fulfillment  of  the  Hope  of  Israel,  and  that 
Jew-bating,  and  anti-Semitic  prejudices  may  ev- 
erywhere cease. 

More  rain  (indignant  tears  over  our  party), 
so  I took  a longer  rest  at  the  hotel,  played  the 
piano  for  the  landlord’s  daughter  until  the  tour- 
ists, tired  of  my  music,  left  without  me.  Be- 


88 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


lieving  I could  easily  find  them,  I started  to 
Howard’s  hotel.  Not  there.  Through  the  New 
Gate  to  the  Franciscan  convent.  Not  there.  In 
and  out  of  the  shops  and  stores.  Not  there. 
Until  mortified  to  desperation  I went  back  to  the 
office  and  Mr.  Clark  furnished  me  with  another 
guide  who  steered  me  through  the  slime  and 
stench  of  what  he  called  the  best  way  to  Omar’s 
mosque,  whither  the  party  were  headed  and 
where  I found  them  listening  to  a lecture.  I got 
one  I didn’t  relish.  Moral : Don’t  procrastinate 

and  don’t  think  you  can  “go  it  alone”  through 
the  Old  and  New  Jerusalem.  You  may  get  left 
and  lost. 

I walked  the  streets  of  this  city,  followed  by 
donkeys  as  large  as  dogs,  with  big  Turks  or 
Jews  astride  and  digging  calloused  heels  into  the 
little  fellow’s  sides ; entered  stores  filled  with 
fruits  and  vegetables,  long  loaves  of  dirty  looking 
bread,  old  shoes,  amber  beads,  ornaments  of  olive 
wood,  incense  and  crucifixes.  David  is  the  lead- 
ing street,  filled  with  bazaars  and  beggars,  don- 
keys and  dirt,  camels  and  cats,  tourists  and 
Turks.  In  the  absence  of  a board  of  trade,  I 
went  to  the  corn  market.  My  guide  said  they 
would  give,  “good  measure”  and  shake  it  down 
to  “overflowing”  according  to  the  Scripture. 
They  failed  to  connect  that  day,  for  at  the  cor- 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


89 


ner  of  David  and  Christian  street  my  friend  went 
in  to  change  one  pound  and  got  fifteen  counter- 
feits out  of  twenty  pieces.  It  is  a common  pro- 
verb in  the  east  that,  “a  Greek  will  get  the  better 
of  ten  Europeans,  a Jew  will  beat  ten  Greeks,  an 
Armenian  equals  ten  Jews  and  a Syrian  is  more 
than  a match  for  Greek,  Jew  and  Armenian  to- 
gether.” I believe  it. 

Via  Doloroso,  sorrowful  way,  is  the  name  of 
a rough,  narrow  street  filled  with  ancient  arches 
and  houses  said  to  be  associated  with  our  Lord’s 
last  Journey.  Of  course,  it  isn’t,  for  the  street 
is  only  six  hundred  years  old,  but  in  a true  sense 
most  of  the  streets  in  Jerusalem  are  “sorrowful” 
ways,  whether  you  tramp  them  in  wet  or  dry 
weather,  by  daylight  or  at  night,  in  absence  of 
street-lights  carrying  a lantern  in  Oriental  dark- 
ness, groping  between  narrow  walks,  filthy  curbs, 
greasy  boxes  and  beasts.  What  a city!  No 
cheerful  libraries,  clubs,  concert  halls  or  any- 
thing of  the  kind  before  or  after  7 o’clock.  Think 
of  a “Thousand  and  One  Nights”  in  such  a place. 

* The  money  changers  are  here  as  in  former 
days,  but  my  money  changes  hands  soon  enough 
without  help  from  them.  I met  Mr.  Shylock  and 
he  still  wants  his  “pound  of  flesh.”  I wanted  a 
widow’s  mite,  handed  him  a franc,  expecting  a 
mite  and  a half  franc  in  return.  Instead  of  that 


90 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


he  wanted  another  franc.  I regard  the  mite  as 
a valuable  souvenir.  I wish  I could  speak  Vola- 
puk  and  that  Volapuk  was  English,  for  its  all 
very  fine  to  air  your  French  and  German,  but 
when  you  want  to  make  a bargain,  English  is  the 
real  thing.  I am  so  earnest  about  this  that  Eve 
dipped  my  pen  in  Turkish  coffee.  “Amen”  to 
the  litany  “have  mercy  upon  all  Turks,  infidels 
and  heretics  and  take  from  them  all  hardness  of 
heart.” 

Yet  it  is  difficult  for  even  an  American  always 
to  carry  the  jewel  of  consistency  across  the  sea. 
Mr.  Blank  goes  with  me  to  Jaffa  Gate  and  buys 
some  phylacteries.  Mr.  Blank  is  a Sunday  school 
teacher  and  wants  souvenirs  for  his  class,  but 
wants  them  cheap.  The  dealer  is  in  a kind  of 
syndicate  and  says  he  cannot  cut  the  price  on 
those  pictures  and  things.  Mr.  S.  S.  man  says, 
“No  one  will  know  it.”  Mr.  Heathen  looks  him 
in  the  eye,  points  to  his  heart,  and  says,  “I  will 
know  it.” 

I visited  the  German  Church  of  the  Redeemer. 
The  beadle  spoke  of  King  William’s  generosity, 
showed  me  his  royal  signature  in  the  big  Bible 
and,  noticing  my  covetous  gaze  at  the  big  Berlin 
organ,  asked  me  if  I wanted  to  play.  Yes,  I did, 
and  I got  there  with  both  hands  and  feet.  It 
was  a different  make  from  any  I had  ever  tried 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


9i 


before  but  I experimented  with  some  of  the  stops 
and  pedals,  and  growing  confident,  added  others, 
turned  on  the  big  swell  center  wheel  until  the 
arches  rang  with  “America,”  “Doxology”  and 
“Dixie.”  This  was  formerly  the  hospital  of  St. 
John ; what  the  old  buried  knights  of  the  elev- 
enth century  thought  of  my  performance  I did 
not  wait  to  learn. 

“Walk  about  Zion.”  I did  in  about  an  hour, 
for  it  was  only  about  two  and  a half  miles.  What 
a fortress  with  foundation  and  walls  of  stone! 
“Count  the  towers  thereof.”  I did  that,  too,  for 
awhile,  until  they  grew  too  many,  admiring  most 
the  massive  masonry  of  David’s  tower,  a mon- 
ument of  age  and  strength.  “Mark  ye  well  her 
bulwarks” — if  that  may  be  translated  “gates”  ac- 
cording to  the  revision  or  accommodation  which 
preachers  practice,  I found  seven,  five  open  and 
two  shut,  and  all  of  them  more  or  less  remark- 
able. 

“Consider  her  palaces” — one  of  them  is  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  I believe  in  all  the 
historic  facts  of  Scripture  but  not  the  specious 
shows  collected  under  this  domed,  Byzantine 
roof.  The  Stone  of  Unction  ; Station  of  Mary ; 
Holy  Selpuchre ; Rod  of  Moses ; Column  of 
Scourging ; Bonds  and  Prison  of  Christ ; Chapel 
of  Vestments ; Chapel  of  the  Finding  of  the 


92 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Cross;  Chapel  of  the  Crown  of  Thorns;  column 
marking  the  center  of  the  earth ; Calvary ; Tomb 
of  Melchizedek;  Chapel  of  St.  Helena  where  the 
Basilica  of  St.  Constantine  once  stood ; tomb, 
sword  and  spurs  of  Godfrey  de  Bouillon.  These 
last  two  places  were  of  interest  because  of  prob- 
able truth.  Concerning  the  other  sights  enum- 
erated, I looked  and  listened  but  was  utterly 
skeptical. 

Do  not  misunderstand  me ; I was  reverent  and 
thoughtful ; I listened  to  all  that  was  said  and 
looked  at  all  that  was  pointed  out ; I gave  alms 
when  asked  and  where  it  was  not  expected ; I 
was  moved  with  sympathy  towards  the  pilgrims 
who  were  there  at  the  cost  of  life  earnings  and 
home  associations ; I saw  youth  and  age,  beauty 
and  deformity,  standing,  kneeling,  crying,  smil- 
ing, praying  and  prostrate  beyond  anything  I had 
read,  heard  or  seen  in  fact  or  fancy,  but  I did 
not  and  I could  not  and  I will  not  believe  in  the 
local  A to  Z of  our  Lord’s  suffering  which  is  col- 
lected and  classified  in  this  church. 

The  Mosque  of  Omar  is  the  other  “palace;”  it 
is  a beautiful  thing  and  you  have  seen  pictures 
of  its  inside  and  outside.  There  are  many  Jew- 
ish, Moslem  and  Christian  legends  connected 
with  the  “Dome  of  the  Rock,”  in  fact  some  of 
the  rockiest  legends  I have  ever  heard.  I gazed 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


03 


in  the  Well  of  Spirits  whence  dead  Moslems  are 
to  be  dragged  up  to  Paradise  by  the  hair  on 
their  heads  and  felt  that  if  hair  was  necessary 
my  bald  scalp  was  a strong  argument  against  my 
accepting  the  Moslem  faith.  I wandered  over  to 
the  Sacred  Slab,  where  the  Devil  knocked  nine- 
teen nails  into  the  stone.  But  three  and  one-half 
remain.  When  these  go,  the  world  ends.  The 
kneeling  priest  implored  alms  and  said  what 
translated  meant  “You’ll  go  to  hell  if  you  don’t 
put  some  money  down.”  I replied  with  my 
Bible,  “Go  too  thou,”  but  relented  and  fear  no 
immediate  danger  of  collapse. 

Solomon’s  quarries  are  still  the  Mecca  of  de- 
vout Masons.  I was  secretary  of  a meeting  on 
the  ship  that  took  up  a good  collection  for  the  R. 
S.  mother  lodge  of  Jerusalem.  The  kindness 
was  appreciated  and  a meeting  was  arranged 
for  the  traveling  Masons  in  the  quarry.  Asked 
to  address  the  lodge  in  this  historic  spot,  I com- 
plied ; my  interpreter  must  have  improved  upon 
what  I said,  for  they  gave  me  three  beautiful 
gavels  which  I presented  the  K.  T.,  the  Chapter 
and  Blue  Lodge  of  Owensboro,  Ky.  These 
quarries  resemble  the  Mammoth  cave  in  some 
respects  with  their  boulders,  ravines  and  im- 
mense slabs  of  stone.  The  ancients  quarried  by 
drilling  holes,  inserting  wedges  of  wood  which 


94 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


when  wet  swelled  and  pressed  out  the  stone.  I 
remember  a spring  of  water  in  this  cave  because 
it  tasted  salt  and  because  I slipped  and  fell  in 
the  mud. 

With  my  brother  Masons  I had  my  picture 
taken  in  a group  at  the  entrance  of  the  quarry 
with  the  foundation  stones  of  the  old  wall  for  a 
background.  The  sun  was  shining,  I failed  to 
remove  my  glasses  so  that  I look  like  a wall- 
eyed pike — not  the  Grand  Commander,  Albert 
Pike. 

I had  repeated  conversation  with  some  citizens 
of  Jerusalem  who  complained  of  lack  of  protection 
from  the  American  consul  and  government,  and 
wanted  a representative  appointed  who  would 
think  more  of  American  citizens  and  less  of 
black  coffee  with  Turkish  officials.  During  the 
Armenian  massacre  Americans  in  Jerusalem  had 
no  protection  from  the  American  government 
until  they  made  a big  kick  through  the  American 
newspapers.  It’s  a shame  that  Americans  are 
at  the  worst  possible  advantage  in  Jerusalem. 

Eight  years  ago  the  American  cemetery  on 
Zion  was  “desecrated”  and  sold  to  the 
French,  who  dug  up  and  threw  out  the 
bones  of  some  great  men  with  their  families. 
The  Jews  own  Olivet  today  and  you  may  buy  a 
simple  grave  on  its  slope  for  $250.  I didn’t 


THE  HOLY  CITY. 


95 


take  one.  America  is  good  enough  for  me. 

It  is  still  raining  and  we  splash  and  slip  with 
great  discomfort.  But  when  we  learned  how 
much  this  rain  meant  to  the  natives,  we  stopped 
complaining  and  said,  “The  Lord  reigneth,  let 
Him  do  what  seemeth  good  in  His  sight.”  In 

February,  1899,  there  were  twenty-five  inches 
less  rain  than  February,  1900.  For  four  months 
the  city  was  almost  without  water.  The  poor 
had  to  pay  three  piastres,  fifteen  cents,  for  a skin 
of  good  water.  When  they  only  made  six  pias- 
tres a day  it  didn’t  leave  much  for  solid  refresh- 
ment. Still,  even  in  America,  I’ve  known  a 
man’s  bill  to  be  more  for  drink  than  food  or 
clothes. 

“If  I forget  thee,  O,  Jerusalem,  let  my  tongue 
cleave  to  the  roof  of  my  mouth.”  I shall 
not  forget  thy  Oriental,  Gothic,  Byzantine  and 
Italian  architecture,  or  thy  Orientally  costumed 
natives,  fur-capped  Jews,  white-capped  women, 
robe-padded  Russians,  long-haired  Greeks, 
hooded  Armenians,  fezzed  Turks  and  outland- 
ish tourists — or  the  days  of  thy  early  glory,  when 
vineyards,  terraced  hillsides  of  corn  and  grain 
made  thee  the  city  of  milk  and  honey. 

Jerusalem,  thou  art  indeed  the  most  historic 
and  holy  city  in  all  the  world.  No  wonder  the 
Old  Crusaders  wept  for  joy  when  they  saw  the 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


96 

sacred  city  of  Abraham,  David,  Solomon  and 
Christ.  There’s  an  Oriental  proverb  that  the 
worst  Moslems  go  to  Mecca  and  the  worst  Chris- 
tians are  those  who  have  been  to  Jerusalem.  I 
hope  not. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 

“Saddle  me  the  ass,  and  they  saddled  HIM,” 
was  the  professor’s  misaccented  Scripture.  To 
avoid  such  a mistake,  I said : “My  kingdom  for 

a horse,”  and  on  the  principle  that  you  get  what 
you  pay  for,  I was  assigned  an  animal  with  a tail 
as  short  as  a preacher’s  bank  account  and  a 
neck  as  long  as  a weak  sister’s  tongue. 

I had  prided  myself  with  knowing  something 
about  horses.  A plow  horse  once  ran  away  with 
me  and  scratched  me  off  under  an  apple  tree, 
where  I would  have  remained  like  Absolom  if  I 
had  not  thus  early  given  proof  of  baldness.  To- 
day my  back  bears  the  harrowing  mark  of  this 
John  Gilpin  ride.  Later  a pig  ran  under  my 
horse  while  I was  talking  with  a neighbor’s 
daughter.  He  was  off  before  I was  fairly  on  and 
as  a hay  wagon  loomed  up  in  the  distance,  1 


THK  AUTHOR  IN  ORIENTAL  GARB 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


07 


trusted  to  luck  and  threw  myself  into  the  road; 
when  I got  up  I looked  very  much  like  a zebra. 
Some  years  ago,  in  California,  I tried  to  ride  a 
mustang.  As  a tenderfoot  I was  not  familiar 
with  a cowboy’s  tactics.  The  more  I said 
“Whoa”  and  pulled  back,  the  faster  he  went, 
until  from  sheer  exhaustion  I dropped  the  lines 
and  he  stopped.  “Similia  similibus  curantur” 
and  a liniment  by  the  same  name  restored  me  to 
my  usual  health.  In  Minneapolis  I had  a horse, 
Fred,  well  known  on  the  Harriet  speedway  in 
summer,  and  Lake  of  the  Isles  in  winter,  with  a 
record  of  2:223^,  which  wasn’t  bad,  though  a 
park  policeman  thought  so  and  told  me  that  if 
I drove  that  way  he  would  have  to  run  me  in. 
You  see  the  ruling  passion  for  horses  was  strong 
in  Samaria  and  I fell  into  my  saddle  as  naturally 
and  easily  as  Silas  Wegg  used  to  drop  into 
poetry. 

But  the  first  thing  my  beautiful  Arab  steed  did 
was  to  suddenly  throw  back  his  head  with  the 
force  of  a battering  ram.  He  hit  my  forehead 
and  I was  so  dazed  and  dumb  that  for  a long 
time  I could  only  utter  a word  of  one  syllable. 
This  was  one  of  his  peculiarities  and  for  a week 
through  Samaria  and  Galilee  I had  to  learn  to 
suddenly  shift  right  and  left  so  that  when  he  re- 
peated his  headstrong  habit  he  might  just  brush 


98 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


my  ears  with  his.  The  second  thing  he  did  was 
to  take  fright  at  a Jew,  who  was  carrying  a ton 
of  lumber  <on  his  head,  and  run  me  into  a bake 
shop,  where  the  proprietor  called  me  down  with 
a “Howajji,”  to  which  I replied:  “Very  well, 

how  are  you?”  These  men  of  Palestine  have 
been  known  to  carry  a piano  on  their  backs. 
They  are  good  burden-bearers  and  might  be 
serviceable  in  some  Gentile  churches  where  har- 
mony does  not  always  prevail. 

I wish  you  could  have  seen  our  party.  It  was 
composed  of  men  and  women,  short  and  tall,  fat 
and  lean,  blonde  and  brunette,  with  goggles, 
green  umbrellas  and  white  flopping  veils  around 
their  hats  (to  keep  the  sun  off),  and  flapping 
down  their  backs  like  pigeon  wings.  Sitting 
aside  or  astride,  as  many  of  the  ladies  did,  with 
their  feet,  stuck  in  short  stirrups,  they  looked  as 
if  they  were  frogs  ready  to  jump.  It  was  a sight 
calculated  to  knock  the  camera  crazy  with  as- 
tonishment. 

We  had  a big  party,  consisting  of  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty-two  horses,  thirty-seven  mules, 
nineteen  donkeys,  fourteen  waiters,  forty-three 
tent  boys  and  baggagemen,  six  dragomen,  twen- 
ty-two tents,  seventy-one  tourists  and  a palan- 
quin which  headed  the  party  like  the  old  ark  of 
the  covenant.  I had  a big  dragoman,  whose 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


99 


name  was  “Salah,”  six  feet  four  inches  high, 
weighed  two  hundred  and  fifty-six  pounds 
and  twice  as  much  in  kindness  and  in- 
telligence. He  was  tall,  straight,  brown 
as  a berry,  wore  a yellowish  tasseled  scarf 
wound  around  his  head,  a drab  silk  jacket, 
a gorgeous  girdle,  baggy  blue  breeches,  high  top 
boots,  and  was  armed  with  a horse  pistol,  a 
cheese-knife-shaped  scimitar  that  made  your 
blood  thicken.  Mounted  on  a little  pony  that 
no  one  else  could  ride  because  he  was  so  vicious, 
he  led  us  forth  over  hill,  through  valley,  and  the 
cultivated  fields  of  the  natives  whenever  we  could 
make  a short  cut. 

I was  sorry  to  leave  Jerusalem,  but  I prayed 
for  its  “peace”  as  I passed  a guide  whose  chief 
object  in  life  was  to  get  ahead,  and  was  fighting  a 
fat  woman,  whom  he  had  helped  into  the  saddle, 
for  money.  “Money  makes  the  mare  go.”  The 
golden  calf  is  still  worshipped,  and  when  the 
good  missionary  comes  here  and  offers  a gos- 
pel, “without  money  and  without  price,”  the 
people  are  surprised,  think  it  must  be  worthless, 
and  so  reject  it. 

Outside  the  walls  we  saw  many  places  which 
made  us  feel,  with  Carlyle,  “Let  silence  meditate 
that  sacred  matter.”  It  did,  for  fickle  human  na- 
ture is  offset  by  abiding  nature,  whose  geography 


100 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


remains  while  men  come  and  go.  The  country 
lay  before  us,  a commentary  on  our  Old  and 
New  Testament,  and  pleasure-seeking  for  the 
present  was  lost  in  the  far  sacred  past. 

Dismounting  at  G-ethsemane,  I entered  the 
garden  of  agony;  walked  through  it  silent  and 
alone.  As  I left,  an  old  Franciscan  monk  gave 
me  a handful  of  flowers  and  leaves  from  the  old 
olive  trees.  Thinking  this  place  and  Gordon’s 
cavalry  yonder  might  be  the  true  sites  of  suffer- 
ing and  crucifixion,  I was  startled  by  a piteous 
plea  for  alms  by  eyeless,  noseless,  fingerless,  toe- 
less men  and  women,  whose  poor  condition 
would  melt  a heart  of  stone. 

We  climbed  Olivet’s  summit  and  entered  a 
chapel  in  whose  stone  floor  was  an  alleged  foot 
print  made  by  the  Savior  at  His  ascension.  Dis- 
gusted with  its  unseemly  size  and  the  supersti- 
tion, we  went  out  and  climbed  a minaret  with  a 
tourist’s  spirit  as  sacrilegious  as  a Mohamme- 
dan’s sneer,  and  looked  out  upon  the  wide  sweep 
of  the  Holy  City  and  the  hilly  country. 

Beyond  Olivet  we  were  nearly  run  over  by  a 
train  of  a hundred  camels,  loaded  with  sacks  and 
swinging  and  stilting  along  with  a “get-out-of- 
the-way”  air,  like  a locomotive.  We  moved,  for 
the  camel  can  walk  over  your  little  horse  and  not 
strain  himself  at  all.  I like  the  camel;  he  is 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


IOI 


homely  but  very  handy,  and  said  to  carry  a well 
of  water  inside  him.  I have  never  seen  him 
drink,  but  I’ve  watched  him  eat  a bushel  of  this- 
tles, any  sticker  of  which  was  worse  than  a darn- 
ing needle,  and  he  seemed  to  enjoy  every  mouth- 
ful. 

Bethany  has  the  traditional  home  of  Martha 
and  the  tomb  of  Lazarus.  It  used  to  be  a quiet, 
delightful  city,  but  from  the  time  I entered  it  I 
was  followed  by  a crowd  of  blear-eyed  rag-bags 
who  bombarded  me  with,  “Tombo  Lazarus — 
bucksheesh,bucksheesh — tombo  Lazarus.”  Even 
the  dogs  looked  mean  and  barked  bucksheesh, 
and  little  babies  who  could  not  talk  stretched 
out  their  filthy  fingers  and  lisped,  “Sheesh.” 

Was  this  the  Well  of  the  Magi,  where  weary 
they  paused  and  saw  the  star  reflected 
which  led  to  the  Manger?  Is  this  domed  struct- 
ure the  tomb  of  the  sweet,  sad  Rachel?  No 
doubt,  according  to  the  belief  of  Jew,  Moslem 
and  Christian.  Yonder  in  picturesque  setting 
was  the  birth-place  of  David  and  David’s  Son 
and  Saviour.  The  Convent  of  the  Nativity,  with 
its  star-marked  manger;  tomb  of  St.  Jerome, 
Paula  and  Eudosia;  Pit  of  Slaughtered  Inno- 
cents; Milk  Grotto,  House  of  Joseph,  and  near- 
by Shepherd’s  field,  David’s  Well  and  Cave  of 
Adullam. 


102 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Bethlehem’s  historic  and  holy  star  was  shining 
for  us  on  a Christian  and  industrious  community, 
which  makes  stars,  crosses,  chains,  beads  and 
boxes  of  olive  wood  and  mother  of  pearl,  and  a 
very  excellent  wine. 

I knew  the  Pools  of  Solomon  were  larger  than 
the  Plelena  plunge.  But,  like  Mother  Hub- 
bard’s cupboard,  there  was  nothing  in  them.  The 
pools  could  be  put  to  use  today  and  I learned  a 
philanthropic  woman  offered  to  repair  them,  but 
the  sulky  sultan  said  “No.”  No  modern  im- 
provements need  apply.  I explored  the  Lower, 
Middle  and  Upper  pools.  They  are  of  magnif- 
icent shape,  size  and  preservation.  The  lower 
could  float  one  of  our  big  ships  and  the  others 
would  make  a fine  * ‘swimmin’  hole”for  small  boys. 

Hebron  is  the  oldest  town  in  the  world  and 
means  “alliance”  or  “friendship.”  Abraham 
lived  here  and  entertained  the  heavenly 
visitors  before  we  came.  Absalom  used  to 
play  on  its  streets,  and  I’m  not  surprised  he 
turned  out  bad.  We  were  not  allowed  to  enter 
the  Cave  of  Macpelah,  in  which  Abraham,  Isaac 
and  Jacob  are  buried;  we  only  wanted  to  see  it, 
and  on  our  way  the  natives  threw  stones  at  us, 
made  faces  and  insulting  remarks  to  the  ladies, 
and  if  it  had  not  been  for  our  Sheik,  would  have 
beaten  us  with  sticks. 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


103 


I felt  like  giving  them  their  medicine  in  the 
pool  of  Hebron,  where  David  hung  the  lifeless 
bodies  of  Saul’s  murderers,  or  taking  them  out 
to  Abraham’s  oaks  at  Mamre  and  holding  their 
stiff  necked  judgment  in  suspense,  or  banishing 
them  from  the  land  as  Abraham  did  Hagar.  With 
new  meaning  we  sang  Hebron,  '‘Thus  far  the 
Lord  hath  led  me  on,’’  in  the  dining  room,  up- 
stairs, over  a stenchful  stable.  The  sheik  rushed 
telling  us  to  keep  still  for  our  singing- 
had  attracted  the  hoodlum  rabble  outside,  who 
threatened  vengeance.  But  what  could  you  ex- 
pect in  the  town  of  Joab,  who  murdered  Abner 
and  where  Jacob  deceived;  and  we  rent  our 
clothes  ? 

Hostelries!  “Weariness  can  snore  on  flint,” 
but  some  resting  places  were  darker  than 
Egypt  and  drearier  than  a sepulchre.  One  of 
them  that  I recall  would  make  a good  grave  for 
Lazarus  or  a cliff  for  a cave-dweller.  But  life's 
law  is  compensation  and  one  must  get  real  tired 
to  enjoy  a real  rest. 

The  distance  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho  is 
about  eight  hours.  That  is  the  way  they  reckon 
distance  here,  so  it  is  long  or  short  according  to 
the  conveyance.  Jordan  used  to  be  a hard  road 
to  travel,  but  a princess  who  met  with  an  acci- 


104 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


dent  on  her  journey  gave  a thousand  pounds 
for  good  roads  so  we  fared  better. 

I was  always  sorry  for  the  young  man  who 
was  held  up,  and  while  it  is  easier  and  safer  to- 
day, one  meets  with  surprising  experiences.  The 
Apostle’s  Rest  is  remembered.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hill  which  I raced  down  for  exercise,  leaping 
over  rocks  like  a chamois,  I came  up  to  the  door 
of  the  inn  and  was  met  by  an  Oriental  who  said, 
“Whisk,  whisk.”  Did  I look  like  a Kentucky 
colonel  ? My  dress  was  semi-clerical  and  the 
red  on  my  nose  was  oriental  sunshine  and  noth- 
ing more.  My  driver  came  to  investigate,  took 
the  proffered  drink,  performed  a dance  and 
smoked  a narghili ; so  1 think  they  mistook  me 
for  one  of  their  brethren.  One  of  my 
companions  will  also  remember  this  Jericho 
drive,  for  he  lost  his  note-book  of  months’  keep- 
ing; worried  about  it  all  the  way  from  Jerusa- 
lem; sent  an  Arab  to  look  for  it  along  the  road, 
and  later  found  it  where  he  had  left  it  in  his 
room  at  the  hotel.  My  accommodating  driver, 
after  he  had  watered  the  horses,  picked  up  a 
chicken,  running  in  his  way ; put  it  in  his  blouse ; 
sat  on  its  head  until  it  was  dead,  and  later  se- 
lected a wooded  camp,  where  he  dressed  and 
roasted  it. 

We  came  to  the  place  of  the  Good  Samaritan, 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


105 


where  I found  material  for  a new  sermon.  You 
see,  I wanted  a bottle  to  put  some  Jordan  water 
in,  so  I purchased  a bottle  of  lemonade  for  ten 
cents,  but  after  I drank  the  vile  stuff  they  wanted 
the  bottle  back  or  ten  cents  extra.  That’s  the 
reason  I haven’t  any  sacred  water  to  give  my 
Paedobaptist  friends.  On  my  return,  I got  even 
with  this  cheating  fellow.  He  kissed  and  fondled 
his  horse  in  true  Arab  style.  I smiled  and  drew 
out  my  American  flag.  He  went  to  the  inn  and 
brought  out  a Turkish  flag  on  a pole,  floated  it 
and  asked  for  mine.  I said  “No,”  reached  for 
his,  and  laughingly  put  mine  above  the  crescent. 
His  reply  was  a look  that  would  have  meant  mis- 
chief if  Selim  had  not  excused  me,  saying  I was 
“big  American.”  That  was  literally  true,  but 
then  I love  the  flag  and  what  it  represents  and 
long  for  its  elevation  and  extension  everywhere. 

Jericho  used  to  be  a city  of  the  first  class.  Eli- 
jah lived  here  and  the  fountain  Elisha  sweetened 
still  sparkles  with  cool  water  for  man  and  beast. 
Later  Herod  built  and  beautified  the  city.  It  had 
gardens  and  groves  and  mad  Anthony  gave 
them  to  his  sweetheart,  Cleopatra.  But  if  I had 
to  live  here  today  on  this  rubbish  heap  or  in  the 
tower  they  call  Zaccheus’  house,  I’d  hunt  a syca- 
more tree  and  fasten  a rope  to  it  and  to  my  neck 
and  cut  loose. 


io6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


We  have  been  looking  for  the  “land  flowing 
with  milk  and  honey/’  where  the  turtle’s 
voice  announces  soup  for  supper,  but  it  is  a 
mockery.  With  slight  variations  in  the  order  on 
the  bill  of  fare,  it  is  lamb,  ram,  sheep  and  mutton, 
goat-milk,  camel’s  hair  and  butter,  spring  water 
and  oranges.  At  Jericho  my  friend,  R.,  covered 
his  shoes  with  holy  mud  which  he  would  not  al- 
low to  be  blacked  or  scraped  off,  but  intended  to 
carry  back  with  other  sacred  souvenirs  to  Kan- 
sas City.  Naturally,  the  traveler  develops  into  a 
curio-hunter,  a stone-cutter  and  vandal  in  gen- 
eral. We  had  broken  and  brought  spemimens 
enough  to  require  an  extra  stateroom,  and 
dreaded  the  customhouse  officer  in  Boston  who 
would  eye  us  to  see  whether  Mr.  Gotrox  was  on 
board. 

The  Brook  Cherith  was  a gorgeous  affair.  The 
deep  ravine,  colored  rocks,  huts  of  hermits, 
perching  like  a martin’s  box,  looked  very  odd. 
Men  come  here  and  go  away,  but  the  brook  mur- 
murs forever  the  story  of  the  prophet  Elijah,  and 
sleepless  care  of  Providence.  Poe’s  weird  raven 
story  took  a new  interest  from  Elijah’s  rocky 
summer  resort. 

Half  dead  with  fatigue  we  reached  the  Dead 
Sea  and  found  it  alive  with  Jordan’s  overflow. 
We  viewed  it  as  Moses  did  the  Promised  Land. 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


107 


I had  enjoyed  a Salt  Lake  experience  with  Spur- 
geon’s son  and  knew  what  salt  water  tasted  and 
felt  like  when  it  filled  your  mouth  and  eyes.  It 
is  so  salt  it  flavors  the  apples  of  Sodom  on  its 
banks  with  a “seal  brown”  taste  a man  is  said 
to  wake  up  with  after  a champagne  dinner. 

Dead  Sea  water  is  eight  times  salter 
than  other  water.  It  is  a low  body  anyway, 
three  thousand  feet  below  sea  level  and  is  asso- 
ciated with  Sodom  and  Gomorrah.  What  val- 
uable real  estate  we  saw  here  has  long  ago  been 
retired  from  the  market.  The  whole  country 
seems  a monument  of  desolation. 

We  sang,  “By  Jordan’s  Stormy  Banks  I 
Stand.”  The  river  was  higher  than  it  had  been 
for  fifty  years  and  was  so  dirty  and  dangerous 
that  we  could  neither  fish  nor  swim  in  it.  It 
staggers  two  hundred  miles  to  make  sixty  miles 
between  Galilee  and  the  Dead  Sea.  Its  story 
flows  straight  through  Old  and  New  Testament 
history  with  a fascination  to  every  creed  and 
clime.  We  bathed  our  dirty  hands  and  faces  in 
it,  then  drank  of  it,  took  a row  boat  and  went  to 
the  traditoinal  point  of  Israel’s  crossing  and 
Christ’s  baptism.  After  the  crowd  had  gone,  I 
remained  with  Dr.  Courtland  Myers  of  the 
Brooklyn  Tabernacle,  who  baptized  his  little 
eight-year-old  son. 


io8 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


We  had  climbed  over  rocks  enough  to  pave  all 
Europe.  In  stumbling  over  them  I had  met  so 
many  social  natives  that  I invented  a greeting 
upon  which  I have  a patent  right.  It  was 
“Salam  bucksheesh,  your  royal  nibs.”  The 
first  words  always  made  them  bow  and  ges- 
ture ; the  second  caused  them  to  look  up  in  a 
knowing  way,  while  the  last  sounded  so  well, 
that  they  took  it  for  a compliment  and  passed 
contentedly  on. 

At  Ram-Allah,  Hill  of  God,  I found  the  Amer- 
ican Friend’s  mission.  A big  American  flag  float- 
ed from  the  roof.  I walked  through  the  beautiful 
grounds,  up  the  steps,  into  the  parlor  and  kitch- 
en, where  I startled  the  cook  speechless.  The 
building  is  spacious  and  complete  every  way.  We 
went  into  the  chapel,  where  twenty-six  fair- 
faced, black-eyed  girls  looked  at  us  and  we  at 
them.  The  teacher  said  they  were,  “Sweet,  good 
girls,  respected  and  sought  for  as  wives.”  We 
took  her  word  for  it.  They  sang  a song  and  with 
a rising  note  at  the  close  of  each  stanza,  so  I 
wondered  where  it  would  end.  I didn’t  quite 
get  the  words  any  more  than  the  tune  and  asked 
the  teacher  what  they  said.  “Oh,”  replied  she, 
“they  greeted  you  in  English.  Didn’t  you  un- 
derstand?” Of  course  I did  then  and,  said, 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


1 09 

“Yes.”  Then  they  repeated  the  Twenty-third 
Psalm  in  native  speech. 

Tired,  I sought  the  convent,  ate  a good  dinner, 
told  stories,  looked  at  Mizpeh  veiled  in  garb  of 
setting  sun,  and  went  to  bed. 

With  Clarence  I “passed  a miserable  night” 
on  a three  sectioned  Procustes’  bed  whose  dif- 
ferent levels  left  me  decorated  like  a broiled 
steak.  My  company  was  good,  but  not  the  cot, 
yet  this  was  a palatial  hotel  to  some  of  the  na- 
tive houses  with  their  vermin  covered  floor  on 
which  donkies,  goats,  and  a more  wretched  hu- 
manity struggled  for  rest. 

I had  dreamed,  sung  and  preached  of  Bethel, 
but  found  it  a poor  little  village  on  a poor  lit- 
tle hill  with  some  few  natives.  The  soil  was  so 
rocky  and  poor  that  even  the  long  patient  vine 
and  olive  could  not  endure  it  and  had  bidden  it 
farewell.  Abraham  reared  an  altar  here  and  Ja- 
cob had  a boulder  for  a bolster.  It  lies  in  ruins 
but  is  rich  in  rocks  and  could  furnish  stone 
bruises  for  all  the  bare-footed  boys  in  Palestine. 

One  gets  frightfully  thirsty  riding  in 
the  holy  land.  There  are  no  cold  bottles 
of  anything  and  the  w7ater  is  stale  and 
flat.  Robber’s  Fountain  had  a reputation 
for  good  water.  Unterrified  we  raced  to- 
ward it  mid  picturesque  scenery  of  olive 


iio 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


wood,  pink,  yellow  and  white  flowers,  passing 
native  women  with  great  bundles  of  brush  on 
their  heads  for  fuel,  who  were  struggling  along 
worse  than  beasts  of  burden.  Just  beyond 
we  rested  at  a kind  of  oasis,  in  a green 
enclosure,  where  the  tablecloth  was  spread  up- 
on a stone.  At  our  feet  there  was  a big  pool  in 
which  the  women  were  doing  a family  washing 
by  pounding  the  clothes  on  a rock.  We  lunched 
with  good  appetite  and  digestion,  but  it  made 
us  feel  bad  to  be  surrounded  by  a crowd  of  sad 
eyed  women  and  hungry  children  who  watched 
every  mouthful  and  waited  for  a crust  or  crumb 
like  a starving  dog  or  cat.  More  than  once  we 
left  them  as  much  as  we  ate;  sometimes  for 
charity,  sometimes  because  they  were  so  dirty 
and  festooned  and  frescoed  with  flies,  dirt  and 
sore  eyes. 

These  sons  of  Abraham  still  plow  with  a stick 
and  tickle  the  soil  and  raise  a sickly  smile  of 
grain,  cut  it  with  a knife  or  pull  it  up  by  hand 
dry  it,  tread  it,  let  the  wind  blow  through  its 
chaff,  leaving  the  grain  behind.  Other  lands 
change,  but  Palestine  lives  the  same  in  its  peo- 
ple, practice,  employment  and  building.  It  is 
a bare,  bouldery,  blistering  land.  Shepherds 
charm  their  flocks  with  a reed  whose  music  com- 
pares well  with  the  sound  of  a nail  scratched  on 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


hi 


a pane  of  glass.  Here  was  a picture  of  natives 
walking  with  bare,  sandaled  feet,  driving  and 
riding  camels  and  donkeys.  Yonder  a field  where 
the  father  and  his  family  were  kneeling  in  the 
wheat  pulling  out  the  tares,  the  mother  being 
near  her  babe  which  was  sleeping  in  a cradle 
shaped  like  a camel’s  saddle. 

Jacob’s  well  continues  to  do  business  at  the 
old  stand.  It  must  have  been  originally  intended 
as  a reservoir,  for  in  spite  of  the  debris  of  years 
it  is  more  than  ninety  feet  deep  and  nine  feet  in 
diameter,  cut  in  the  living  rock.  The  water  was 
cool,  sweet  and  refreshing,  and  we  halted  in  the 
little  adjacent  garden,  talking  over  its  history 
of  Jacob’s  and  the  Savior’s  time.  I met  here  a 
Turk  who  acted  very  strangely.  Cigarettes 
had  made  him  nervous  and  he  kept  play- 
ing with  a string  of  beads.  His  conduct  must 
have  frightened  my  partner’s  horse,  for  he  threw 
her  off  and  kicked  after  she  was  down,  and  how 
she  escaped  being  killed,  we  never  know. 

Shechem  is  beautifully  situated  with  its 
MountEbal  and  Gerizim.  Yonder  is  the  Samar- 
itan convent  with  its  famous  codex  Pentateuch 
manuscript  and  large  mosque,  and  a Baptist 
church  of  twenty-two  members.  The  natives 
hate  the  Christians.  The  camping  party  was 
made  to  pay  a circus  lot  privilege  for  tarrying 


1 12 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


but  a night.  One  of  our  convent  party  had  for- 
gotten his  passport,  but  a few  francs  bribed  the 
Turkish  officer  to  swear  that  it  was  O.  K.  Our 
ex-American  consul,  Gen.  Lew  Wallace,  fared 
worse  some  years  ago;  he  was  minus  his  pass- 
port -or  money  or  something  and  was  detained 
six  hours  until  permission  was  telegraphed  from 
Constantinople  allowing  him  to  go.  We  enjoyed 
the  rest  and  the  refreshment  of  the  Catholic  con- 
vent. The  Fathers  were  kind,  Jhe  fare  was  good, 
and  the  rooms  were  large. 

I talked  to  the  Fathers  through  an  interpreter. 
My  English  companion  spoke  in  French  to  the 
host,  who  turned  to  Father  F.  and  said,  “Tell 
him  to  talk  in  French,  I don't  understand  Eng- 
lish.” That  night  I heard  strange  sounds  and 
woke  to  hear  my  friend  talk  French  with  the 
most  approved  Parisian  accent. 

Samaria  stands  for  sickness  and  smells.  A 
pile  of  dirt,  disease,  cactus  and  ruined  columns. 
Infamous  Ahab  lived  here  and  ran  a Daphne 
grove.  Herod  built  some  fine  palaces  later.  One 
of  our  party  was  a little  indisposed;  Dr.  S.  pre- 
scribed for  him,  and  in  ten  minutes  the  whole 
town  had  brought  its  halt,  lame  and  blind  for 
treatment.  Here  is  a fine  opening  for  a young 
doctor  and  a large  practice  warranted  with  op- 
portunity to  increase  the  death  rate. 


SHECHEM  AND  MOUNT  KBAL 


SCENES  IN  SAMARIA. 


1 13 

Samaria  is  one  of  the  three  old  divisions  of 
the  Holy  Land,  with  Galilee  on  the  North,  Judea 
on  the  South,  Jordan  on  the  East  and  the  Medit- 
erranean on  the  West.  Its  hills  were  less  bare 
than  those  of  Judea,  and  its  valleys  and  plains 
were  more  generally  cultivated  and  fruitful. 

Near  Dothan,  Elijah  prayed  for  blindness  to 
come  on  the  people.  Some  of  their  blind  de- 
scendants were  bathing  in  a well  said  to  have 
been  the  once  dry  one  Joseph  was  put  in  dur- 
ing the  dry  season  before  being  sold  into  Egypt. 
A rock  descent  brought  us  to  a beautiful,  but 
miserable  village,  Jenin,  Fountain  of  Gardens. 
It’s  a place  that  I associate  with  kicking  horses, 
convent  arches,  half-burnt  candles,  a poor  sup- 
per, flea-bitten  dogs,  sore-eyed  children,  the  call 
of  the  Muezzin  overhead,  and  a kind  of  banjo 
serenade  next  door. 

Jezreel  was  a barn  yard,  a ratty,  wretched 
hole,  filled  with  beggars,  and  store  supplies. 
Surely  there  is  something  in  a name  and  you 
might  as  well  hang  a dog  as  give  him  a bad 
name.  The  town  is  associated  with  Jezebel  who 
was  thrown  out  of  the  tower  for  dog  meat.  1 
saw  the  tower,  the  children  threw  stones  at  us 
and  I was  sorry  that  we  had  no  gattling  gun  to 
reply  with.  The  fountain  of  Jezreel  is  where 
the  three  hundred  men  lapped  water  like  a dog. 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


114 

The  valley  of  Jezereel  is  remembered  for  Ahab’s 
palace,  of  which  no  trace  remains;  Naboth's 
vineyards;  Jehu’s  fast  driving  and  Gideon’s  vic- 
tory over  the  Midianites. 

Burka-Dothan,  Jenin,  Jezreel,  are  all  of  a 
kind.  We  came  and  saw  and  were  conquered 
by  swarms  of  vermin  and  vagabonds.  The  most 
fitting  thing  I could  say  was  from  Byron:  “Fare- 
well, dear,  damned,  distracted  town.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

GALILEE  AND  ITS  SACRED  REMINISCENCE. 

Galilee  in  our  Lord’s  time  occupied  all  the 
northern  part  of  Palestine  West  of  the  Jordan 
and  North  of  Samaria.  Its  people  were  brave 
and  industrious  but  held  in  poor  repute.  The 
Savi'or  spent  thirty  years  of  his  life  among  its 
cities.  The  term  “Galilean”  was  one  of  reproach 
and  the  apostate  emperor  Julian  in  the  agony  of 
his  death  cried,  “O  Galilean,  thou  hast  con- 
quered.” 

Gilboa  introduced  us  to  Galilee  and  stood 
sentinel  over  the  plain  of  Esdraelon  and  the  val- 
ley of  the  Jordan.  The  mountain  was  bleak  but 
bright  in  Bible  history.  I opened  my  Bible  and 


GALILEE 


115 

read  how  Saul  and  Jonathan  were  defeated  by 
the  Philistines.  David  uttered  an  “In  Memoriam” 
on  the  death  of  his  friend  which  is  sublime  as 
it  is  sweet,  “Saul  and  Jonathan  were  lovely  and 
pleasant  in  their  lives  and  in  their  death  they 
were  not  divided;  I am  distressed  for  thee,  my 
brother  Jonathan,  thy  love  to  me  was  wonder- 
ful, passing  the  love  of  women.  How  are  the 
mighty  fallen.” 

We  came  to  Shunem,  with  its  dung  decorated 
walls  and  worse  than  Chinatown  atmosphere. 
Here  the  woman  lived  who  was  friendly  to 
Elisha  who  had  saved  her  son.  If  it  smelt  then 
as  it  did  when  we  were  there  I wonder  that 
Elisha  found  anyone  alive  when  he  visited  the 
town. 

Nain  and  Endor  near  by  looked  weird  and 
wicked.  Visions  of  Saul’s  witch  and  thoughts 
of  Macbeth’s  cauldron  floated  before  our  minds 
and  we  believed  with  Riley,  “the  Gobble-uns  ’ll 
git  you,  ef  you  don’t  watch  out.” 

Like  night  to  light  in  contrast  were  Tabor 
and  Little  Hermon  verdure-clad,  sunlit,  baptized 
with  Bible  glory. 

The  Plain  of  Esdraelon  has  been  dyed  with 
soldier’s  blood  from  the  days  of  Barak  to  Na- 
poleon. It  was  wet  with  mud  when  we  crossed 
it;  the  horses  were  nearly  mired.  One  poor  lit- 


ii6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tic  donkey  was  almost  buried  alive,  burden  and 
all,  and  when  his  driver  got  him  out,  he  cursed 
him,  beat  him  and  stuck  a big  knife  in  his  sides 
and  shoulders.  I angrily  complained  to  the 
guide,  who  simply  said : “Donkey  cheap.  He 

get  more.  No  good  fight  him.,, 

Next  to  Jerusalem,  Nazareth  is  the  most  fas- 
cinating city  in  Palestine, — picturesque  with 
cliffs,  oaks,  Cyprus,  minarets,  convents  and 
houses.  The  proverbial  kindness  of  the  people, 
beauty  of  the  women  and  cleanliness  of  the  city 
did  not  disappoint  us.  I saw  a wedding  proces- 
sion, scores  of  men  and  women  clapping  their 
hands  and  two  sword-dancers  amusing  the 
crowd.  They  had  been  at  this  kind  of  perform- 
ance for  a week  or  more  and  wrere  expected  to 
jolly  the  groom  some  days  longer  before  he  met 
his  bride  and  made  her  his  wife.  Poor  fellow, 
I thought,  it  will  be  easy  for  your  wife  to  manage 
you  after  all  this.  It  was  a kind  of  “Taming  of 
the  Shrew”  reversed.  For  a long  time  the  au- 
thorities have  tried,  in  vain,  to  suppress  this  kind 
of  pre-nuptial  demonstration.  It’s  lots  of  fun 
but,  like  the  frog  fable,  for  the  boys  and  not  the 
unfortunate  frogs. 

I had  read  about  and  seen  pictures  of  Ori- 
ental kissing.  I suppose  if  one  must  kiss,  the 
best  thing  to  do  is  to  kiss  the  best  looking  per- 


GALILEE 


“ 7 

son,  who,  outside  of  our  party,  was  generally  a 
man.  In  Nazareth  it  was  a little  different.  The 
girls  and  women  were  very  attractive  and  I was 
not  surprised  when  a bachelor  friend  said,  “Look 
at  those  lips,  wouldn’t  you  like  to  kiss  them?” 
The  girls  were  pretty,  with  a little  loose-looking 
flour  bag  that  served  for  full  dress,  bare  feet, 
brass  bracelets,  wealth  of  old  coins  and  a grace 
and  smile  more  valuable  than  all. 

Of  Nazareth  we  may  forget  many  things, 
but  not  the  Latin  convent  with  its  church  of  the 
Annunciation,  with  its  beautiful  French  picture, 
roll  of  organ,  of  voices,  kneeling  children  and 
teachers  near  by.  Our  hearts  rose,  our  eyes 
filled  with  tears,  and  our  lips  said,  “Amen.”  1 
saw  the  alleged  workshop  of  Joseph,  table  of 
Christ,  school  where  He  studied,  house  where 
He  lived  and  synagogue  where  He  taught.  I 
questioned  the  locality,  but  not  the  historical 
facts  of  the  divine  boy  and  man  whose  sinless 
years  were  spent  beneath  the  Syrian  blue.  The 
Protestant  church  welcomed  us.  The  girls’  or- 
phanage appealed  to  our  charity;  the  Fountain 
flowed  full  and  free  for  us  and  our  horses;  and 
we  witnessed  the  immemorial  custom  of  the  vil- 
lage girls  dressed  white  and  looking  bright,  fill- 
ing jars  and  pitchers  of  water  and  carrying  them 
on  their  heads. 


n8  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

I held  prayer  service  that  Sabbath  night. 
The  German  keeper’s  family  were  there  in  force 
to  play  the  organ  and  lead  the  music.  I spoke 
on,  “Our  Lord’s  Life  in  Nazareth.”  The  subject, 
time  and  occasion  are  indelibly  impressed. 

Cana,  the  scene  of  Christ’s  miracle,  is  a tum- 
ble-down village  with  a few  hundred  inhabitants. 
We  lunched  on  the  curb  and  drank  from  the  well. 

In  this  well  at  Cana,  from  which  the  watering 
pots  were  filled  in  the  olden  time,  I found  a big, 
old  eel.  One  of  our  party  just  touched  him 
with  his  cane,  whereupon  Mr.  Eel  immediately 
turned  to  one  side  and  was  apparently  dead. 
Soon  an  angry  crowd  collected,  and  the  children 
cried,  for  the  eel  was  an  old-time  friend  and  pet. 
A boy  pointed  out  the  meddlesome  tourist  to 
the  old  sheik  who  looked  as  if  he  would  punish 
him  with  his  crook.  Just  then  the  eel  took  a 
wiggle  to  himself,  fell  over  on  his  right  side 
again  and  all  was  merry  as  a marriage  bell. 
Were  it  not  slang,  one  might,  say,  Doesn’t  it 
‘‘jar  you”  to  see  the  original  firkins  or  waterpots 
that  were  filled  with  good  wedding  wine  at  that 
early  memorable  marriage. 

Near  this  historic  spot,  not  being  a rough 
rider,  I performed  a feat  only  equalled  by  Alex- 
ander or  Mazeppa.  We  had  overtaken  the  first 
party  and  I raced  my  Arab  steed,  with  the  flag 


GALILEE 


ug 

flapping  from  my  umbrella  handle,  tucked  in  my 
riding  boot.  I slowed  down,  the  winner,  and  my 
horse  stepped  from  a ledge  of  rock  to  a smooth 
piece  of  road,  which  suddenly  gave  way  and  left 
his  forelegs  deep  in  the  mud.  Of  course  I lost 
my  balance,  rolled,  and  went  head  over  heels.  I 
quickly  kicked  my  feet  out  of  the  stirrups,  then 
tried  to  get  up.  He  did  it,  too,  at  the  same  time, 
striking  out  with  his  feet  and  missing  my  head, 
which  lay  between  them,  by  a fraction  of  an 
inch.  It  was  all  the  work  of  an  instant.  Men 
held  their  breath  for  fear,  and  one  woman  al- 
most fainted,  but  I got  up  unhurt,  plastered  with 
mud.  My  Bucephalus  ran  away  a short  distance 
and  then  waited  for  me  to  come  up  and  mount. 

We  reached  Tiberias  with  its  Herod’s  baths, 
Jewish  quarters,  Greek  church  and  convent. 
From  my  window  I saw  gardens  of  palms  and 
doorways  filled  with  pretty  faces,  which  were 
willing  to  smile  like  American  sisters. 

Tiberias,  the  modern,  offered  us  the  shelter  of 
the  Franciscan  Hospital.  From  its  windows  we 
saw  the  Greek  church,  Jewish  quarters,  old  cas- 
tle, Herod’s  baths,  and  ruins  of  a wall  tumbled 
down  by  an  earthquake,  which  destroyed  half  the 
population  in  1837.  Back  of  us  were  the  moun- 
tains ; before  us,  the  sea ; from  my  window  I saw 
a garden  of  palms  and  a casement  filled  with 


120 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


childish  faces.  I witnessed  a beautiful  sunrise  on 
Galilee  and  took  pictures  from  the  housetops, 
including  early  morning  scenes  of  bathing,  dress- 
ing and  eating.  Now,  as  in  Solomon’s  days, 
fools’  eyes  wander  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Lat- 
er in  the  day,  when  two  men  rudely  demanded 
bucksheesh  from  me,  for  fear  that  they  might 
be  relatives  or  lovers  of  the  subjects  of  some 
views  I had  taken,  I paid  the  price. 

We  sailed  “Blue  Galilee,  where  Jesus  loved  so 
much  to  be,”  but  as  usual  the  sanctity  of  the  place 
was  marred  by  some  profane  incident.  Our  sail 
boat  was  good  and  well  manned  until  we  neared 
Capernaum,  when  a squall  struck  us  and  the  sail 
was  lowered,  but  not  quite  soon  enough  to  keep 
us  from  being  driven  on  to  the  rocks.  We  leaped 
off,  then  a sailor  pulled  off  his  pants,  jumped 
into  the  water,  leaned  against  the  boat  and 
pushed  with  his  toes  against  the  pier.  After  the 
boat  had  been  made  fast,  I saw  the  captain  take 
the  poor  fellow,  who  had  been  too  slow  with  tha 
sail,  beat  him  in  the  face  with  his  fist  until  he 
spit  blood,  then  push  his  head  over  the  gun- 
wale, pound  him,  and  nearly  shake  his  head  off 
his  shoulders. 

“With  charity  for  all  and  malice  towards 
none,”  sounds  well ; but  it  is  hard  to  love  these 
dirty  Arabs  and  degraded  Turks.  Perhaps  they 


GALILEE 


I2l 


are  as  good  as  can  be  expected.  These  poor  peo- 
ple are  taxed  to  death  by  the  Sultan;  extortion 
is  his  motto.  They  would  like  to  have  him  provi- 
dentially deposed,  and  many  of  them  would  like 
to  personally  be  the  sharp  instrument  of  his  fate. 
Through  an  interperter  one  of  my  guides  begged 
me  to  take  him  to  America,  promising  to  be 
“fera  good.” 

The  Sea  of  Galilee  ripples  and  roars  in  still 
summer  night  and  stormy  day  the  words  and 
deeds  of  Him  who  sailed  its  waves  and  spoke  on 
its  shores.  Nine  cities  once  stood  upon  its  banks ; 
fleets  sailed  its  waves ; and  now  solitude  and  si- 
lence brood  over  all.  Seven  hundred  feet  below 
the  Mediterranean  level,  the  water  is  clear  and 
good  to  drink,  when  drawn  at  sufficient  distance 
from  the  filth  of  Tiberias.  The  green  fringe  in 
February  gives  place  to  bright  oleanders  later, 
and  reflected  in  the  limpid  water  are  millions  of 
little  white  shells.  It  was  too  cold  to  swim,  and 
the  fish  did  not  bite.  The  lake  is  still  subject  to 
violent  storms,  but  we  risked  a voyage. 

Capernaum’s  brutality  was  on  a par  with  the 
ruins  of  the  cities  and  other  villages  near  by  on 
which  the  curse  rested.  We  touched  at  Bethsai- 
da  and  Magdala,  and  then  put  back  for  Tiberias 
with  the  moon  and  stars  mirrored  in  the  blue 
water.  We  sang  “Galilee,”  the  waters  joining 


122 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


in  the  chorus,  then  our  sailors  broke  out  in  some- 
thing like  “Ha-jah-manah-lyah-man,”  and  pulled 
to  the  oars,  for  we  promised  tnem  bucksheesh  if 
they  reached  the  convent  first.  They  did,  after 
landing  us  in  such  a way  that  it  was  necessary  to 
be  carried  ten  feet  on  the  backs  of  swarthy 
thieves,  who  would  have  dropped  us  into  the  sea, 
between  the  boat  and  the  shore,  if  we  had  not 
paid  them.  A big  spread  awaited  us,  and  an 
hour  later,  after  we  were  done,  Rev.  Mr.  A., 
came  in  with  his  party,  tired,  hungry,  and 
full  of  impetuous  wrath.  Their  boat  had 
been  becalmed,  and  the  sailors  would  not 
row,  because  bedeviled  with  the  spirit  of  the  Gad- 
arene  swine,  which  nothing  but  money  could  exor- 
cise. This  was  denied  them,  and  they  struck. 
Of  no  avail  were  the  yards  of  poetry  reeled  off 
on  deck.  The  tourists’  apparent  indifference 
finally  gave  way  when  the  clergyman  threatened 
to  hit  the  sailor  with  an  oar,  and  exclaimed,  with 
a voice  which  startled  the  sacred  scene,  “You  are 
the  worst  set  of  sailors  I ever  saw,  and  I’ll  see 
you — dead — before  I will  give  you  a cent.” 

The  Mt.  of  Beatitudes,  or  Horns  of  Hattin, 
welcomed  us  with  its  curiously  shaped  hill.  Near 
here  Saladin  defeated  the  crusaders  in  1187,  and 
placed  the  crescent  above  the  cross.  Scholars 
refer  to  it  as  the  scene  of  the  feeding  of  the  five 


GALILEE 


123 


thousand  and  mountain  sermon.  I opened  my 
Bible  and  read  the  sublime  discourse,  with  its 
illustration  of  flower,  bird  and  rock  all  before 
me.  What  a prince  of  preachers  Christ  was.  No 
wonder  the  multitudes  followed  him  gladly.  Near 
by  were  sheep  folds  of  rock,  shepherds  leading 
their  flocks,  and  all  bearing  mute  testimony  to 
the  Good  Shepherd  who  gave  His  life  for  His 
sheep. 

After  I came  down  this  historic  mountain,  I 
saw  two  Bedouins  in  the  distance.  At  once  I 
thought  of  their  reputation  for  murder  and  rob- 
bery, and  cried,  “Allah,  be  with  us.”  I was  un- 
armed, and  they  possessed  guns,  sabres  and  pis- 
tols. Relief  came  to  me  in  the  form  of  a trav- 
eling Arab  and  wife,  who  diverted  their  atten- 
tion. The  man  preceded  the  woman,  on  foot, 
carrying  a lance,  she  following  on  horseback.  I 
immediately  recalled  Bayard  Taylor’s  beautiful 
Arab  song: 

“I  love  but  thee, 

With  a love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 

And  the  stars  are  old, 

And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold.” 
But,  pshaw ! I don’t  believe  Bedouins  are  very 
brave.  They  look  like  cowards  and  would  prob- 
ably “make  a sneak”  if  attacked.  I think  they 
are  in  conspiracy  with  the  government,  and  give 


124 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


half  they  make.  That’s  a very  nice  arrangement ; 
you  pay  a big  robber  to  keep  the  little  robbers 
off. 

Caifa  is  yonder  with  our  ship  in  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  we  are  glad.  We  ate  and  drank  at 
the  brook  Kishon.  Our  carriage  was  almost 
overturned  in  the  valley,  and  to  save  myself  I 
jumped  into  mud  almost  ankle  deep  and  splashed 
my  face  and  clothes  till  even  the  dogs  looked 
doubtful.  They  reminded  me  of  the  story 
of  a boy  who  went  to  see  his  girl.  As  he  entered 
the  yard,  the  bull  dog  leaped  out  with  an  ugly 
growl.  “Come  in,  Sonny,”  called  the  fond  father 
from  the  porch;  “he  won’t  hurt  you.  See,  he  is 
wagging  his  tail.”  “Yes,  but  he’s  showing  his 
teeth,  and  I can’t  tell  which  end  of  him  tells  the 
truth.” 

I climbed  Mt.  Carmel,  viewed  Lebanon,  Her- 
mon,  the  city  Caifa,  German  settlement  and  Med- 
iteranean;  visited  the  Carmellite  Monastery; 
played  its  Italian  organ;  chimed  its  bells;  tasted 
its  sacred  liqueur;  smelled  its  orange  blossoms; 
and  received  a pilgrim’s  medal  befitting  a pil- 
grim through  the  Holy  Land. 

Palestine  is  not  large  in  size,  but  is  great  in 
significance.  A diamond  is  small  compared  with 
a load  of  charcoal,  but  there  is  no  proportion  in 
value.  In  the  scale  of  moral  influence,  the  Holy 


GALILEE 


25 


Land  makes  other  lands  lighter  than  the  dust  of 
the  balance. 

I have  gone  from  “Dan  to  Beersheba,”  and  it 
is  not  all  “barren.”  With  proper  care  and  culti- 
vation Palestine  could  sustain  myriads  of  people 
and  make  millions  of  money.  I have  a new  Bible 
and  a new  geography. 

Travelers  have  been  divided  into  three  classes 
— those  who  are  content  to  see  natural  localities 
connected  with  Christ’s  life,  and  who  derive  in- 
spiration from  its  cherished  memories ; those  who 
swallow  every  fake  and  fable  and  mire  themselves 
in  the  slough  of  superstition ; those  who  become 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  all  the  sham  and 
faults,  and  forget  the  value  of  the  true,  and  ridi- 
cule it  all  as  a joke.  I belong  to  the  first  class. 
Blue  sky  and  fleecy  clouds,  rushing  river  and 
rounded  hill,  peaked  mountain  and  crystal  lake, 
smiling  plain  and  frowning  valley,  green  grass 
and  gray  olives,  red,  white  and  blue  lilies  of  the 
valley  and  flowers  of  the  field  are  found  here  to- 
day, as  when  Christ  loved  and  used  them  as  illus- 
trations of  His  Father’s  providence. 

Much  of  rhapsodical  and  nonsensical  prose  and 
poetry  have  been  written  of  the  Holy  Land.  I 
revere  it  for  what  it  was  and  not  for  what  it  is. 
Its  past  history  is  its  halo. 


126 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT. 

Storms,  like  sorrow,  may  endure  for  a night, 
but  joy  comes  in  the  morning.  A wind  that  blew 
great  guns  and  almost  shot  me  through 
the  guards  at  the  bow,  was  followed  by 
a bright,  cool  morning.  We  had  begun  to  sail 
west,  and  the  ship’s  clock  had  been  turned  back 
one-half  hour,  so  that  I was  too  previous  for 
breakfast.  But  a walk  on  an  empty  stom- 
ach is  good,  and  when  I did  get  at  the 
table  I remained  until  the  provisions  were 
out  of  sight  and  we  sighted  the  beautiful 
islands  of  the  Archipelago,  the  lands  of  story  and 
song,  and  Taurus’  blue  mountain  in  the  distance. 

Two  Asiatics  rowed  us  over  to  Beirut  in  a rud- 
derless, lopsided  boat,  with  a lack  of  skill  that 
made  us  thankful  we  carried  insurance  enough 
to  have  a decent  funeral,  providing  our  bodies 
could  be  found.  There  is  a fascination  about  an 
Oriental's  manner  and  address  that  leads  us  to 
address  him  in  a manner  not  altogether  in  har- 
mony with  the  dignity  of  an  Episcopal  prayer 
book.  Once  ashore,  we  drove  to  the  German  hos- 


THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


127 


pital,  with  its  beautiful  garden  of  shrubs  and 
flowers,  its  finely  built  and  equipped  buildings, 
and  learned  again  that  “twice-told  tale,”  that  the 
Germans  are  on  earth  for  business  in  a business 
manner,  and  the  stamp,  “Made  in  Germany,”  is 
proof  of  stuff  “all  wool  and  a yard  wide.” 

The  American  Protestant  college  here  is  fa- 
mous for  its  missionary  and  philanthropic  enter- 
prise. All  creeds,  colors,  and  classes  of  people 
are  welcome,  and  on  them  not  proselyting  but 
quiet,  Christian  influences  are  brought  to  bear. 
Its  assembly-room  and  fine  organ  would  do  credit 
to  a state  university — its  museum  is  com- 
plete, and  is  under  the  direction  of  Professor 
Porter,  who  knew  Dr.  Guilian  Lansing,  and 
spoke  highly  of  him  for  his  Christian  character 
and  scholarly  ability. 

Smyrna  and  sunrise  were  synonymous,  and  a 
tender  towed  us  to  shore.  We  were  to  “do”  Eph- 
esus first,  and  so  boarded  a mule  street  car,  which 
ran,  or  rather  walked,  to  the  station.  The  sea 
before,  the  snow-capped  mountains  behind,  fer- 
tile valleys  between,  cultivated  by  gaudy  farmers, 
were  an  intoxication,  and  we  sang  until  natives 
and  nobles  must  have  thought  the  expected  earth- 
quake had  come. 

Think  of  a locomoticve  in  this  land  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  waking  up  the  dreamy  inhabi- 


128 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tants.  The  roadbed  was  very  rough.  The  super- 
intendent of  the  train  had  six  coaches  for  us,  but 
we  were  short  of  passengers,  as  only  a few  of  us 
were  religiously  inclined  enough  to  visit  the  sa- 
cred city.  He  was  disappointed.  We  urged  him 
to  consider  quality  and  not  quantity,  and  this 
only  made  matters  worse.  A wonderfully  beau- 
tiful and  picturesque  ride  brought  us  to  old  Ayas- 
salook.  How  do  you  like  the  looks  of  that  word 
for  a town?  Well,  its  name  was  appropriate  to 
the  nature  of  the  inhabitants,  and  before  we  left 
them  we  applied  the  classic  scripture,  “If  after 
the  manner  of  men  I have  fought  with  beasts 
at  Ephesus.” 

Ephesus  is  about  forty  miles  southeast  of 
Smyrna.  Its  leading  industry  was  the  worship 
of  Diana  in  a temple  regarded  as  one  of  the  seven 
wonders  of  the  world,  which  became  the  eighth 
when  Herostratus  burned  it  down  to  immortalize 
his  name.  Diana  illustrated  the  “Beauty  and  the 
Beast”  in  her  magical  mysteries  and  rotten  rites. 
Even  her  image  was  “fallen”  from  Jupiter  in 
heaven, — an  image  very  old,  much  venerated  and 
made  of  a black  wood  “tapering  to  the  foot,  with 
a female  bust  above  covered  with  many  breasts, 
the  head  crowned  with  turrets,  and  each  hand 
resting  on  a staff.”  (So  the  Bible  dictionary 
says,  and  it  must  be  true.)  Her  meeting-house 


RUINS  AT  EPHKSUS 


THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


129 


was  the  glory  and  pride  of  the  city.  It  was  built 
of  scores  of  white  marble  columns  (see  your 
guide  book.)  It  contained  immense  treasures 
(see  your  encyclopaedia). 

Demetrius  did  a “16  to  1”  business  here  in 
making  silver  shrines  for  Diana  (see  Bryan),  and 
I have  an  ancient  Ephesian  coin  with  a statue  of 
Diana,  for  which  I paid  a silver  dollar,  and  it  is 
worth  four  copper  cents  to  any  fool  who  doesn’t 
care  if  he  is  faked. 

I bought  a section  of  the  marble  temple ; sat  in 
the  solid  rock  seat  of  the  theater  where  Paul 
read  the  riot  act,  a silent  spectator — so  far  as  the 
meanest  and  most  murderous  lot  of  looking  na- 
tives I ever  saw  permitted.  I looked  at  the  ruins 
of  aqueducts  crowned  with  storks’  nests,  wan- 
dered through  old  mosques,  reclined  in  the  city 
gateway,  had  my  picture  taken  ’mid  the  ruins  of 
the  Church  of  Ephesus,  breathed  foul  air  from 
the  harbor,  which  is  now  a pestilential  marsh ; 
gazed  on  heights  ornamented  with  shapeless 
ruins — in  fact,  did  the  whole  thing  until  I was 
about  used  up  and  glad  to  go  to  the  hotel,  where 
the  entertaining  Ephesian  host,  a twin  brother  of 
Jack  Falstaff,  fed  us,  saying,  “Leef  roome  for 
more  to  eat,”  and  then  gave  us  a card  with  his 
photograph  stuck  on  as  a souvenir. 

Ephesus  is  a paradise  for  the  Bible  student, 


130 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


as  well  as  the  tourist  and  antiquarian.  Paul 
often  came  here,  founded  a church,  in  which 
such  workers  as  Aquila  and  Timothy  labored, 
and  wrote  one  of  his  best  epistles.  Here  John 
spent  his  declining  years  composing  his  gospel, 
and  epistles,  and  returned  from  his  banishment 
in  Patmos  to  live  and  die  among  those  he 
loved,  while  the  Christ  of  the  church  compli- 
mented the  Church  of  Ephesus  in  words  which 
any  church  of  today  may  well  covet. 

Ephesus  was  the  native  heath  of  Apollo  and 
Diana,  of  Pan  who  Piped,  Amazons  who  at- 
tacked, P>acchus  who  boozed,  Hercules  who  hit, 
Homer  who  hymned,  and  of  Anthony  the  Amor- 
ous, who  had  such  a bad  case  of  heart  disease 
with  Cleopatra  that  one  day  when  she  happened 
to  pass  the  open  door  of  the  court  he  left  his  seat 
and  the  advocates  who  were  speaking,  and  rushed 
to  her  side,  saying,  ‘‘Fly  with  me  and  be  my 
love,  and  we  will  have  a boat  ride  with  silvered 
oars,  cologned  sails,  and  entertaining  actors,  mu- 
sicians and  servants  to  amuse  us.” 

Ephesus  was  the  London  and  Paris  of  Asia. 
The  boys  here  had  an  active  time,  and  torpid 
livers.  Artificial  lakes,  aqueducts,  gymnasiums, 
odeons,  hippodromes,  forums,  athearueums,  tow- 
ers and  temples,  from  Apollo  and  Bacchus  to  the 
other  end  of  the  alphabet.  For  a joke  it  must 


THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT.  131 

almost  seem  they  had  a kind  of  faith  cure,  which 
agreed  to  put  in  a good  eye  and  leg  for  a glass 
or  wooden  one  if  the  invalid  could  pronounce 
these  musical  words,  “Aski,  Catski,  Lix,  Tetrax, 
Damnameneus  Aision.”  Try  it.  Now  let  me 
see  your  tongue.  How  does  it  feel  ? 

I think  it  was  Professor  Poofenheimer  who 
discovered  here  the  following  inscription,  since 
made  familiar  to  many  people : “This  way  to 

Foley’s  grave.  Enjoy  life  while  you  live,  for 
you  will  be  a long  time  dead.” 

“Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians.”  Alexan- 
der, Darius,  Homer,  Horace,  and  Virgil  said  so, 
and  we  add,  yes,  sir,  and  say,  was  but  not  is.  Its 
vice  and  luxury  burned  out  its  life,  and  its  mag- 
nificent marble  architecture  has  melted  like 
snow.  Today  its  marshes  are  full  of  centipedes 
and  scorpions.  Among  its  ruins  are  hyenas  and 
jackals,  which  prowl  about,  while  its  few  native 
inhabitants  are  meaner  still.  Since  leaving  Amer- 
ica I have  learned  from  the  tombs  of  Memphis, 
from  the  hieroglyphics  in  Thebes  and  ruins  here 
that  the  nations  that  forget  God  write  their  own 
epitaph.  Ancient  marbles,  canvas,  poetry  and 
history  are  God’s  messengers  to  us,  teaching  us 
as  a nation  to  put  far  from  us  the  sins  which  are 
a “reproach  to  any  people.” 

We  went  back  to  see  Smyrna.  It  is  on  record 


1 32 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


that  Smyrna  has  been  devastated  by  earthquakes, 
fires  and  cholera ; to  this  we  must  add  the  plague 
of  the  New  England  tourists ; were  it  not  for  the 
Protestant  church  and  missionary  zeal  which  this 
city  now  enjoys,  the  last  affliction  must  have  been 
the  worst  of  all,  and  fatal.  I liked  Smyrna,  figs, 
oranges,  homes,  hospitality  and  history.  The 
story  of  its  rich  and  powerful  reign — its  church 
referred  to  in  Revelations — its,  “Angel  of  the 
Church/’  Polycarp,  John’s  pupil,  who  was  mar- 
tyred and  lies  buried  under  a cypress,  mid  the  old 
city  ruins  on  the  overhanging  heights — its  poly- 
glot peoples,  Greeks,  Armenians,  Jews,  Franks, 
and  the  Turks  who  call  it  “infidel  Smyrna”  be- 
cause all  its  inhabitants  are  not  slaughtering  Mo- 
hammedans. It  presented  a busy  appearance 
with  the  foreign  ships  anchored  in  the  big,  deep 
harbor,  and  its  caravan  ships  of  the  desert  laden 
with  precious  jewels,  spices,  tapestries  and  most 
obnoxious  odors.  This  card  was  put  in  my 
hand : 


JOHN  BAGDADLI, 

MODERATE  PRICES. 

THE  DEAR  STRANGERS  ARE  BEGGED  TO 
VISIT  OUR  ORIENTAL  BAZAAR. 


I 


THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


m 


The  words  “moderate”  and  “dear”  were  some- 
what contradictory,  but  we  had  learned  to  offer 
half  the  price  that  was  asked.  I had  read  of  the 
“Caliph  of  Bagdad”  and  had  played  the  overture, 
but  I wanted  to  see  the  real  thing,  so  I visited  the 
bazaar  until  I was  crazy,  the  shopkeepers  were 
crazy,  and  a crazy.  Nubian  crawled  under  a big 
camel,  took  hold  of  my  arm  and  yelled  at  me 
until  I thought  he  would  blow  out  a cylinder 
head.  This  confusion  attracted  the  attention  of 
an  official,  who  eyed  me  and  said,  “Pickpockets.” 
That  was  the  “unkindest  cut  of  all,”  and  I 
can  never  see  a Smyrna  rug  without  thinking  of 
the  ragged  experience  I suffered.  But  there 
were  some  others,  and  misery  had  her  company 

which  she  loves.  My  companion,  Professor  P , 

had  long,  black  hair,  which  led  a shrewd  fellow 
to  call  him  “Poet  Lariat.”  My  dragoman  fell  in 
love  with  one  of  our  girls,  and  said  as  he  sighed, 
“Oh,  I cannot  schleep  tonight,”  while  my  guide 
looked  at  a folding  umbrella,  and  put  his  hand 
to  his  head  and  said,  “American  big,  big,  big.” 

I wanted  something  beside  change  of  scen- 
ery and  institutions,  and  so  went  to  Cook’s  Tour- 
ist office.  I got  the  change  with  a little  discount, 
but  there  is  no  discounting  the  fact  that  when 
once  you  change  your  American  Express  order 
the  money  vanishes  like  melted  ice.  Bazaars  of 


134 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


bric-a-brac,  pastry  shops,  photo  galleries  and  side 
shows  are  temptations  on  every  side. 

I did  buy  a leather  tobacco  pouch,  not  because 
I smoked,  but  because  it  looked  Oriental  and 
would  do  to  ornament  my  den  at  home.  I 
thought  I had  the  best  of  the  bargain  after  an 
hour’s  higgling  with  the  seller,  but  I learned 
differently.  He  had  given  me  about  thirty  cents 
counterfeit  money  in  change. 

An  American  flag  attracted  my  attention.  I 
made  for  it  and  found  it  led  to  a drug  store,  that 
old-time  institution.  The  black-haired,  eyed, 
skinned  proprietor  greeted  me  with : “Ameri- 

cano?” I said,  “Yes,  Kentucky.”  Thereup- 
on he  jumped  towards  me,  grasped  my 
hand  and  said:  “Whisky  wtihout  a head- 

ache!” Shades  of  prohibition  martyrs!  Could 
it  be  possible?  But  it  was.  My  townsman 
distiller,  Mr.  McC.,  in  Owensboro,  whose  book- 
keeper was  a member  of  my  congregation,  had 
shipped  him  some  barrels  of  firewater  a few 
weeks  before,  so  that  when  I told  him  where  I 
hailed  from  he  remembered  the  product  and  was 
“hail  fellow,  well  met.”  He  treated  me  as  if  I 
were  a prince,  showed  me  his  store,  emp- 
tied me  with  questions,  filled  me  with  com- 
pliments and  promised  me  some  Turk- 
ish delights.  I didn’t  know  just  what  he  meant, 


THREE  CITIES  OF  THE  ORIENT. 


135 


and  said  “no/’  for  I had  seen  some  of  them 
walking  the  streets  and  casting  covered-eyed, 
bare-breasted,  friendly  glances  at  me  from  side 
doors  and  casement  windows.  But  he  said 
“sure,”  and  thrust  into  my  hand  a box  of  candy, 
which  was  a cross  between  a marshmallow  and 
an  old-fashioned  tooth-pulling  gumdrop.  Turk- 
ish delight,  indeed.  There  were  others,  but  this 
one  wasn’t  bad.  A drug  store  anywhere  is  a 
curious  thing;  you  can  take  anything  in  sight  and 
get  some  things  besides  perfumery  sub  rosa.  For 
instance,  in  America,  whisky  without  a license, 
and  in  Syria  without  a headache. 

There  were  husky  millers  here  years  ago.  It 
seems  that  there  were  some  Millerites  who 
thought  that  this  world  was  a failure,  and  God’s 
clock  indicated  the  time  when  it  would  come  to 
an  end.  In  fact,  they  wanted  it  to  end.  This 
is  the  only  thing  which  could  make  them 
or  some  of  their  modern  followers  happy.  So 
they  swarmed  to  Smyrna,  robed  themselves  in 
white  garments,  climbed  the  mountain,  and 
wanted  to  go  up,  but  there  was  a hitch  some- 
where ; they  didn’t  rise ; they  grew  tired  of  wait- 
ing, and  came  down  again  to  their  homes,  their 
aerial  trip  being  no  more  of  a success  than  Da- 
rius Green’s  flying  machine. 

Some  of  us  were  tired  and  sleepy.  The  guide 


1 36 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


showed  us  the  legendary  cave  of  the  Seven 
Sleepers ; but  we  were  afraid  of  “seven-come- 
eleven” — and  remembering  their  sad  Rip  Van 
Winkle  experience,  replied:  “No  Mount  Pion 

for  us.”  So  far  we  have  enjoyed  health  and  hap- 
piness by  sleeping  in  our  own  beds. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


On  a golden  sea  beneath  a sunlit  sky,  by  is- 
lands and  mountains  glorious  with  classic  and 
sacred  memory,  we  sailed  toward  Constantino- 
ple. Our  entrance  to  the  Dardanelles  was 
guarded  by  old  forts  on  both  banks  and  an  an- 
chored fleet  of  three  hundred  old  washtubs, 
which  Admiral  Dewey  could  knock  into  kind- 
ling wood  before  breakfast.  Byron  sings  of  this 
city  and  its  surroundings,  with  its  “cedar  and 
vines,  wings  of  zephyr  and  song  of  nightingale.” 
Yet  here,  as  everywhere, we  are  prepared  to  learn 
that“distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view,  ’’and 
when  we  land  we  may  expect  to  be  disillusion- 
ed. What’s  in  a name?  Much.  Constantine 
came  here  in  300  A.  D.,  bringing  the  seat  of 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


137 


government  in  his  pants  pocket  from  the  Tiber 
to  the  Bosporus.  The  city  grew  and  was  new 
when  old  Rome  was  burned  by  the  barbarians. 
Civilization,  art  and  religion  flourished  under 
the  first  Christian  emperor  till  a “nipping  frost” 
fell  in  1453,  and  the  heathen  entered  into  God’s 
inheritance.  To-day  it  is  the  monument  of  an 
ancient  bulwark  against  barbaric  invasion  into 
Europe  and  a throne  from  which  the  scepter  of 
great  power  has  been  wielded. 

Seraglio  Point  was  the  first  place  seen  and 
visited;  but  it  had  ceased  to  be  the  sultan’s  court. 
That  morning  it  was  an  Eveless  Eden;  but  there 
were  women  elsewhere,  and  I learned  that  the 
law  allowed  a man  four  wives,  but  he  usually 
found  one  sufficient.  Yet  Islam  cares  for  the 
gentler  sex,  admits  it  has  soul  and  is  immortal  if 
good,  while  the  law  allows  her  some  privileges 
American  women  would  be  jealous  of  if  they 
knew.  I saw  beautiful  ladies  in  separate  cars 
and  carriages,  walking  in  the  streets  or  shopping 
in  bazaars.  This  same  secrecy  is  maintained  in 
the  home.  The  selamlik  is  a room  for  the  men 
and  the  harem  is  for  the  women.  There  is  a 
door  between,  beyond  which  not  even  the  hus- 
band may  go  if  the  ladies  visiting  have  left  their 
shoes  outside  the  door  sill.  Silly,  isn’t  it? 

Stamboul,  the  moslem  quarter,  is  near  Ser- 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


1 38 

aglio  Point.  Galata,  the  business  section,  is 
along  the  shore,  and  Pera,  the  ‘‘infidel  Europe- 
an” residence  quarter,  is  on  the  hill.  Before  we 
crossed  from  Stamboul  we  visited  the  imperial 
treasury  and  found  it  full  of  souvenirs  sultans 
had  begged,  borrowed  or  stolen.  A bad  fire  had 
destroyed  many  things,  they  said,  but  I saw 
enough  to  stack  a coal  bin.  Aladdin  must 
have  lived  here  and  rubbed  his  lamp  against 
‘‘any  old  thing”  until  there  were  “quartz” 
of  diamonds,  gallons  of  pearls,  bushels  of  emer- 
alds and  rubies,  soap  boxes  full  of  crowns  and 
scepters,  a room  full  of  pearl-incrusted  thrones 
and  robes,  tapestries,  guns,  shields  and  sabres 
sufficient  to  equip  an  army.  The  sultan  isn’t 
“broke”  financially.  It  might  break  his  heart  to 
sell  off  some  of  his  stuff  to  get  money  with  which 
to  pay  his  Armenian  massacre  indemnities;  but 
I know  he  can  do  it,  and  I want  to  help  make 
him  do  it  on  general  principles,  and  especially 
because  he  made  us  wait  two  hours  on  his  cere- 
mony in  a damp,  cold  rain  before  he  let  us  into 
his  show  place.  Mad,  did  you  say  the  tourists 
were?  Just  a little.  There  was  a big  tree  near 
by  on  which  his  royal  ancestors  had  hung  some 
of  the  victims  of  his  tyranny.  We  had  been 
hung  up  for  some  time  and  I know  of  several 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


m 


foreigners  who  would  have  returned  the  compli- 
ment with  interest. 

The  Golden  Horn,  so  called  from  its  similar- 
ity at  sunrise  to  a Christmas  cornucopia,  or  from 
the  amount  of  wealth  in  its  watery  deep,  is  a 
sluggish  arm  of  the  sea  filled  with  boats  as  thick 
as  a Mississippi  river  log  boom. 

There  are  thirty  thousand  of  these  caiques 
and  they  are  to  Constantinople  what  the  gondo- 
las are  to  Venice.  All  I did  was  to  get  one  out 
of  the  forest  of  the  others  and  then  sit  flat  down 
in  the  bottom  as  in  a birch  canoe,  when  I shot 
the  rapids  at  the  “Soo,”  and  let  the  boatman  do 
the  rest.  From  the  forest  of  craft  we  took  a 
steamer  and  sailed  for  four  miles  past  masts, 
floating  bridges,  banks,  Cyprus  groves,  gaudy 
colored  houses  and  minarets.  Some  of  my  friends 
saw  all  this  “in  a 11001/’  They  were  cold  and  went 
down  into  the  engine  room  to  munch  macaroni 
cakes,  tell  stories  and  keep  warm,  while  my 
friend  Millet  was  too  cross  for  anything,  having 
received  just  before  he  left  the  ship  a bucket 
of  slop  over  his  new  coat  and  pants.  He  was  a 
comment  on  the  couplet,  “Every  prospect 
pleases  and  only  man  is  vile.” 

Eyoub  was  at  the  end  of  the  Horn,  the  burial 
place  of  the  standard  bearer  of  the  Mohammed 
after  whom  the  sacred  suburb  is  named.  Here 


140 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  Sultan  is  inaugurated,  wears  the  hero’s 
sword  and  rides  a white  horse  to  his  palace.  We 
wanted  to  visit  the  shrine,  but  no  Christian  dog 
has  ever  been  permitted  to  walk  its  sacred 
streets.  If  he  tried  it  he  would  find  a dog  catch- 
er near  by  who  would  soon  terminate  his  career. 

I saw  the  Horn  and  Sweet  Waters  of  Europe, 
English  and  Jewish  quarters  of  the  city,  Navy 
Yard,  Sultan’s  summer  palace,  Constantine’s  pal- 
ace, Roman  Acqueduct,  Greek  school  and  a sol- 
dier’s burial.  Believing  the  soul  is  in  agony  un- 
til the  body  is  buried,  they  hasten  interment  if 
possible  before  night,  carding  the  corpse  in  a 
box  on  their  shoulders  to  the  grave,  depositing 
the  body  and  bringing  back  the  box  or  coffin  as 
we  do  a hearse  for  the  next  funeral.  Slow  in 
life,  the  Turk  is  swift  in  death. 

Moslem  cemeteries  sigh  with  their  cypress 
trees,  planted  at  each  grave,  as  we  do  a bush  or 
flower;  pelkovan  birds  called  Lost  Souls  cry  in 
distress.  The  guide  said  ‘tcmb  stones  were 
decorated  with  a marble  fez  for  a man,  or  flower 
for  a woman.  Some  of  the  i.tones  stand  up- 
right, others  lean  like  drunken  skeletons.  Shady 
places  here  and  there  are  much  frequented  by 
picnic  and  promenading  parties.  The  Moslem 
is  a fatalist  and  does  not  allow  such  a necessary 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


141 

thing  as  death  to  throw  gloom  over  his  pleas- 
ures. 

This  Horn  trip  called  us  to  dinner  at  the  Peri 
palace  hotel.  From  more  and  most  everything 
in  tapestries,  tables  and  toddies  that  cold,  starved 
souls  needed,  there  was  an  abundance.  We  were 
to  have  a ball  at  night,  the  American  flag  was 
draped  around  in  patriotic  profusion,  but  death’s 
“pale  flag”  had  been  advanced.  Two  of  our  num- 
ber lay  dead.  What  ‘sharp  lightning’  death 
makes  when  it  strikes  hard  on  life  and  in  thai 
flash  we  read  our  mortality. 

The  Tower  of  Galata,  diriy  white,  circular, 
twelve  feet  thick  and  a mile  high  when  you  climb 
it  in  a crowd  and  hurry,  was  once  a tower  of  de- 
fense, but  is  now  used  by  the  fire  department 
which  looks  through  field  glasses  to  locate  the 
fires  which  are  frequent  in  the  crowded  parts  of 
the  city.  It  affords  a fine  view  for  miles  around. 
The  tower  could  tell  many  a story  of  conquest 
and  carnage.  I shall  remember  it  more  for  the 
spiral  climb,  the  pigeons  darting  over  head  and 
under  foot,  the  rank  greasy  smell,  and  my  de- 
sire to  knock  the  heathen  cone  off  the  top  and 
replace  the  cross  which  it  had  supplanted. 

Every  day  has  its  dogs  in  Constantinople. 
Dogs,  big  and  little,  brown  and  black,  foxy  and 
wolfish,  and  all  the  dogs  have  their  day  to  sleep 


142 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


in  and  night  to  work  in  eating  the  refuse  gar- 
bage thrown  into  the  gutters.  They  are  good- 
natured  street-cleaners,  live  unmolested  in  select 
places,  man  and  beast  showing  them  a kind  con- 
sideration unlike  the  dog-catching  methods  in 
the  United  States.  I said  “nice  doggy”  and  one 
of  them  poked  out  his  long  nose  and  wagged 
his  short  tail  and  followed  me  until  I was  about 
to  drive  him  home  when  a kind  of  sentinel  police 
dog  stationed  on  another  beat  made  a jump  for 
him  and  sent  him  howling  back.  A dog  must 
“shinny  on  his  own  side”  here  or  take  the  con- 
sequences. Hydrophobia  is  said  to  be  unknown 
here  but  I found  flees  in  evidence. 

The  Turk  builds  fountains  instead  of  statues 
and  crosses.  His  religious  motto  is,  “Dirt 
is  Depravity,”  but  he  wastes  no  water  in 
scrubbing  his  streets  and  that  is  why  he  gets  so 
dirty  and  must  wash  so  often.  The  broom  bri- 
gade on  the  roads  is  not  seen.  “Throw  physic 
to  the  dogs”  and  they  will  do  the  rest. 

One  sees  water  everywhere  in  the  ruins  of 
gigantic  aqueducts  and  under  ground  cisterns 
six  hundred  feet  long.  The  “Thousand  and  One 
Pillars”  looks  like  the  colonnade  of  an  Oriental 
temple.  There  is  no  water  in  it  now  but  it  is 
filled  with  flying  bats  and  bad  bogey-man  leg- 
ends and  inhabited  by  silk  spinners  who  are 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


143 


weaving  their  own  shrouds.  I found  the  city  a 
paradise  for  the  Temperance  Advocate.  The 
Koran  prohibits  intoxicating  drink  and  the 
Turks  obey  and  could  elect  a prohibition  presi- 
dent if  they  wanted  to.  When  you  want  a drink 
a fantastically  dressed  fellow  rushes  to  you  with 
bells  in  his  hands  and  a barrel  on  his  back,  turns 
the  faucet  and  puts  out  your  fiery  thirst  with  wa- 
ter or  lemonade. 

The  Whirling  Dervishes  whirled  and  der- 
vished  for  us  to  our  heart’s  content  with  a po- 
etry of  motion  a Sitka  Indian  could  nev- 
er attain.  My  head  grows  dizzy  and  my 
stomach  faint  when  I think  of  them  and 
their  musical  accompaniment  of  tambourines 
and  flutes  which  were  a cross  between  an 
ungreased  saw  and  the  breathing  of  an  over- 
driven horse.  I left  before  these  human  tops 
stopped  spinning  and  I carried  away  the  memory 
of  their  tomato  can  hats,  bell  shaped  robes,  half- 
closed  eyes,  drooping  heads  and  extended  arms. 
I still  see  the  uplifted  right  palm  catching  a 
blessing  from  Allah,  the  left  hand  turned  down 
to  bestow  it. 

There  is  a proverb,  “The  uest  thing  to  be  in 
the  world  is  a Christian,  the  next  best  thing  is  to 
be  a Mohammedan.”  Mohammedanism  seems 
to  be  a kind  of  rationalistic  Christianity.  The 


144 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


doctrine  of  the  Atonement  is  excluded  but  it 
has  some  points  more  closely  resembling  Chris- 
tianity than  Judaism  or  Buddhism. 

Galata  bridge  across  the  Horn  is  the  world 
in  embryo.  A polyglot  people  of  all  the  classes, 
collections,  and  casts  and  costumes  you  can 
imagine.  Here  comes  an  official  in  a hack  fol- 
lowed by  an  armed  guard.  Fezzes  like  a wave 
of  blood  roll  by  suggesting  the  brutal  murder  of 
the  Armenian  Christians  on  this  thoroughfare; 
gaudily  dressed  officers  and  raggedly-clad  vend- 
ers of  fruit  and  beggars  hideous  in  deformity 
beyond  anything  we  have  seen  in  Egypt  or  the 
Holy  Land.  The  bazaars  caught  the  eye  of  my 
friend  who  had  said,  “If  there  are  no  bazaars  in 
Constantinople  I want  to  go  to  Athens.”  There 
were  acres  of  them  filled  with  gold  and  silver  or- 
naments, rugs,  tapestries,  silks,  fez  hats,  guns 
and  knives.  They  were  located  on  narrow, 
staggering  streets  filled  with  crowds  of  mer- 
chants and  sight-seers  who  had  delirium  tremens 
of  activity. 

The  mosque  of  Santa  Sophia  is  to  Constanti- 
nople what  Hamlet  is  to  the  play.  Justinian 
built  it  to  outrival  Solomon’s  temple,  but  the 
Turk  piled  big  buttresses  against  the  dome  and 
planted  minarets  around  it  until  the  original 
architect  would  scarcely  recognize  it.  Sophia 


■k 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


145 


is  the  finest  mosque  of  five  hundred  in 
the  city.  Golden  sun  and  silver  moon 
make  a dreamy  scene  of  marble  and  min- 
arets till  you  are  waked  by  the  muezzin 
who  five  times  a day  calls  to  prayers, 
saying:  “G*od  is  great,  there  is  but  one  God,  Mo- 
hammed is  the  prophet  of  God,  prayer  is  better 
than  sleep,  come  to  prayer.”  Of  more  interest 
to  me  than  this  airy  dome  and  massive  masonry, 
or  prayer  rug  floor,  or  blood  fingered  wall,  or 
sword  scarred  sweating  column,  was  the  mosaic 
picture  of  Christ,  long  ago  covered  over  with 
Turkish  paint,  which  is  now  peeling  off  and 
showing  the  form  and  face  of  Him  who  is  the 
“Light  of  Asia”  and  of  the  whole  world. 

Looking  up  two  hundred  feet  to  the  dome 
of  St.  Sophia,  I stumbled  over  two  devout  Mos- 
lems who  were  kneeling  towards  Mecca.  They 
said  ‘‘Allah,  something,”  and  I said,  “Allons,” 
and  “ah  there.”  If  it  had  been  Friday  and  the 
priest  had  been  in  his  pulpit  with  Koran  in  one 
hand  and  drawn  sword  in  the  other,  I might  have 
felt  the  force  of  his  remarks.  I thought  of  the 
Scripture  quotation,  “My  house  shall  be  called  a 
house  of  prayer  but  ye  have  made  it  a den  of 
thieves,”  as  I looked  upon  its  gold  mosaics, 
ornaments  of  beauty,  swinging  lamps,  and  col- 


i4o  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

umns  of  jasper  and  alabaster  which  had  been 
stolen  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  world. 

I like  a Hippodrome  now,  because  the  circus 
was  a forbidden  thing  when  I was  a boy.  The 
tents  were  like  the  New  Jerusalem  to  my  young 
eye,  but  the  animals  were  a guarded  Eden  which 
I might  not  enter.  In  this  quaint  town  I saw 
the  remains  of  a show  that  beat  Barnum’s. 
The  horses  of  St.  Mark’s  had  gone  back  to  Ven- 
ice, battered  statues  and  buildings  were  crum- 
bled, but  the  Egyptian  Obelisk  looked  silently 
down  as  it  had  on  Moses,  Plato  and  Cleopatra. 
The  little  bronze  column  which  had  held  the 
golden  tripod  of  Apollo’s  priestess  at  Delphi 
shamed  our  youth  into  reverent  silence,  while 
the  big  blackened  Constantine  column  held  to- 
gether by  iron  rings  excited  our  veneration.  Phi- 
dias’ statue  of  Apollo  had  crowned  its  summit 
and  Constantine  had  carved  on  its  pedestal  these 
famous  words,  “O,  Christ,  Ruler  and  Master  of 
the  World,  to  Thee  have  I consecrated  this  city 
and  the  power  of  Rome.  Guard  it  and  deliver  it 
from  harm.” 

The  Maiden’s  Tower  made  me  sigh  as  I re- 
called the  legend  of  the  lover  whose  flower  gift 
concealed  the  serpent  which  sent  her  to  Cleo- 
patra’s death.  Then  there  was  the  museum  with 
its  splendid  collection  of  statues,  antiques,  and 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


M7 


Alexander  Sarcohagus,  whose  marble  beauty  al- 
most robbed  death  of  its  terrors. 

The  best  thing  I noted  in  Constantinople  was 
its  educational  advantages.  Robert  college, 
with  its  American  teachers  and  missionaries,  di- 
recting the  mind  and  heart  of  young  men  from 
all  parts  of  the  Orient  and  sending  them  back 
evangels  of  material,  mental  and  moral  liberties. 
The  American  college  for  girls  is  on  the  Asiatic 
side  near  Scutari  doing  the  same  tor  the  women 
and  a Bible  house,  in  spite  of  local  prejudice  and 
opposition,  is  growing  a tree  of  life  whose  leaves 
are  for  the  healing  of  the  nations. 

From  the  Golden  Horn  to  the  Black  Sea  was 
only  sixteen  miles,  but  a picture  of  white  clouds, 
blue  water,  warship  and  tugs ; banks  on  the  Asia 
bowing  to  bays  on  the  European  side;  colored 
houses  peering  through  cypress  trees;  the  pic- 
turesque castle  of  Europe,  once  monumental, 
now  a mass  of  ruins;  the  place  where  Asia  and 
Europe  clasp  hands  within  one  thousand  six 
hundred  feet,  where  I read  the  story  of  Jason 
and  his  Argonauts  and  Golden  Fleece;  Darius 
with  a bridge  of  boats  and  host  of  seven  hundred 
thousand  men;  Xenophon  and  his  retreat  of  the 
ten  thousand  Greeks;  the  sailing  of  the  ban- 
ished poet  Ovid ; the  crossing  of  the  Cru- 
saders en  route  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre ; 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  sailing  of  the  French  and  English  fleets  at 
the  time  of  the  Crimean  war ; while  above  stands 
Marochetti’s  monument  to  the  eight  thousand 
British  soldiers  who  lie  buried  along  the  blue 
Bosporus,  surrounded  by  sculptured  angels  who 
recall  their  bravery  and  record  the  ministry  of 
the  tender,  loving  Florence  Nightingale. 

With  a sunlit  sail  by  and  beyond  the  city, 
past  crumbling  walls,  scowling  forts  and  Rob- 
ert College  with  its  American  flag  flying  and 
students  waving  their  hands  and  shouting,  we 
sped  on  into  the  Black  Sea.  Returning  to  Con- 
stantinople, some  of  the  city  passengers  who  had 
come  along  for  a little  ride  expected  the  big 
steamer  would  stop  on  the  way  back,  but  we 
were  headed  for  Greece  and  so  the  big  whistle 
sounded  for  a tender  with  hard  hearted  tone.  At 
last  it  came  and  then  came  the  tug  of  war  in  a 
high  sea  and  a stiff  breeze,  to  make  fast  to  our 
boat  for  the  transfer  of  the  passengers.  One 
man  lost  his  hat,  another  jumped  into  a row  boat 
and  lashed  himself  with  rudder  rope,  a lady  slid 
down  the  gangway  almost  into  the  sea,  and 
my  kodak  records  some  other  exposures  which 
would  not  look  well  in  print. 

During  our  stay  we  had  anchored  opposite 
Dolma  Baghtcheh,  the  sultan’s  most  splendid 
palace.  Sun  and  moon  burnished  its  marble 


v 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY.  149 

walls  and  tracery  into  an  outer  glory  which  was 
only  the  reflection  of  an  inward  splendor.  Mar- 
bles, stairway,  mosaics,  frescoes,  bronzes, 
rugs,  tapestries,  cut  glass,  columns,  urns  of 
malachite  and  porphyry  lead  to  a resplendent 
throne  room,  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world.  At 
one  time  this  palace  held  seven  hundred  people, 
now  not  one  except  the  guards  for  the  house  is 
haunted  with  the  memory  of  his  murdered  uncle, 
Abd-ul-Aziz  as  isn’t  and  his  insane  elder  brother. 
Uneasy  lies  the  head,  that  wears  the  crescent. 

The  present  government  is  called  the 
sublime  porte,  which  means  the  Lofty  Gate,  but 
its  elevation  is  only  in  name.  Time  was 
when  Othman  and  Suleyman  were  names  to 
conjure  with,  men  cruel  but  kingly.  The  present 
ruler  has  a low  forehead,  a hooked  nose,  red 
beard,  crafty  looking  face  and  is  a lazy,  cowardly, 
murderous  despot  who  can’t  even  visit  his 
mosque  on  Friday  to  serve  his  God  without  the 
pomp  and  protection  of  ten  thousand  men 
to  guard  his  sacred  person.  He  calls  him- 
self a “Shadow  of  God.”  Alas,  poor  ghost! 
God  is  truth,  Mahammed  is  falsehood  and 
Islam’s  three  great  forces  were  and  are 
the  sword,  slavery  and  sensuality.  How 

long  before  the  “balance  of  powers”  will 
upset  his  throne?  If  there  is  no  political  solu- 


150 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tion  then  we  must  look  for  a religious  one.  The 
“Sick  man  of  Europe”  is  Asiatic  in  his 
religion  and  nature.  Some  writers  are  hope- 
ful of  Constantinople’s  future,  but  I am 
not,  though  I do  not  forget  her  situation 
and  past  history.  So  long  as  the  crescent 
shines  where  the  cross  stood  I shall  believe  that 
the  swift  current  known  as  the  Devil’s  Stream, 
which  flows  between  the  Black  Sea  and  Mar- 
mora, is  symbolic  of  a satanic  force  which  rules 
and  ruins.  It  has  been  well  said  the  “United 
States  has  citizens,  England  has  subjects  and 
Turkey  has  abjects” — yes — “abjects”  which 
have  hounded  me  by  day  and  haunted  me  in 
dreams  by  night  all  through  Egypt,  Palestine 
and  Syria. 

Richard  Cobden  believed  that  America’s  oc- 
cupation of  Turkey  would  solve  the  “Eastern 
Question.”  After  what  we  did  at  Manila  and 
Cuba,  it  is  possible  we  may  hear  the  war  cry, 
“On  to  the  Dardanelles,”  for  the  satisfaction  of 
Miss  Stone.  Mr.  W.  T.  Stead  suggests  that  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  float  over  the  waters  of  Mar- 
mora, and  when  the  Sultan  flees  from  Stamboul, 
leaving  his  capitol  to  the  mob,  Americans  may 
step  in  and  save  Constantinople  from  the  fate  of 
Alexandria.  Indefinite  occupation  would  do 
what  Europe  could  not,  nor  would  Europe  ob- 


IN  THE  SULTAN’S  CITY. 


151 

ject,  and  so  Gobden’s  dream  would  come  true  of 
the  great  republic  of  the  West  becoming  an 
agent  for  restoring  the  prosperity  and  peace  of 
the  desolated  East. 

I had  seen  Constantinople  by  sun,  moon,  lamp 
and  candle  light,  heard  its  noises,  smelled  its 
smells  and  been  dusted  by  its  dirt.  I wanted  a 
bath.  As  last  I got  the  Simon  pure  article.  I 
took  it  like  my  coffee,  a la  Turk.  I was  roasted, 
pounded,  boiled,  peeled  and  had  my  weight  re- 
duced fifteen  pounds.  I did  not  speak  to  the 
proprietor  the  next  morning.  To  me  he  was  an 
“unspeakable  Turk,”  and  I cut  him  on  the  street. 
If  I ever  catch  that  fiend  on  American  soil,  who 
tortured  me  in  that  Turkish  Tartarus,  I’ll  “feed 
fat  the  ancient  grudge  I bear  him,”  and  intro- 
duce him  to  the  proverbial  good  Indian,  who  is 
always  dead. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL. 

I sat  with  a book  on  my  lap,  a white-capped 
cheek  and  gave  me  an  eighth  birthday  kiss.  I 
sea  before  me  and  little  Courtland  Meyers  by  my 
side,  who  softly  put  up  his  sweet  mouth  to  my 


152 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


thought  it  very  nice,  for  my  little  flaxen-curled, 
blue-eyed  boy  Lowell  was  many  miles  from  his 
papa.  “Pluck  ye  roses  while  ye  may/’  and  kiss 
when  you  can,  for  while  we  sailed  in  the  white 
course  of  the  big  moon  before  us,  a storm  was 
gathering  in  the  back,  black  distance  which 
threatened  a number  of  experiences. 

The  storm  struck  us  in  the  night  and,  with 
form  stretched  out  like  a pantograph  to 
keep  from  tumbling  out  of  my  berth,  I existed 
until  morning.  After  several  desperate  attempts 
to  get  dressed  and  not  caring  whether  I shaved 
or  wore  a tie,  I reached  the  upper  deck.  The 
bugle  blew  for  breakfast;  no,  I thank  you,  the 
fish  are  well  fed  from  the  kitchen.  Later  I ven- 
tured into  the  smoking  room,  where  I met  a man 
who  divided  his  time  between  cards  and  claret, 
proposing  a toast  to  “the  best  woman  God  ever 
made.”  Strange,  it  was  his  wife,  I think,  and 
the  anniversary  of  their  marriage.  Then  fol- 
lowed a heated  debate  about  the  holy  Greek  fire 
at  Jerusalem  by  some  red-faced  brethren  who 
frequently  tanked  up  on  large  amounts  of  un- 
holy American  fire-water.  That  night  a benefit 
was  given  by  the  ship’s  victualling  department 
for  African  widows  and  orphans.  It  met  my  ap- 
proval, for  if  England  had  decided  to  make  them 
she  was  under  obligation  to  take  care  of  them. 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL. 


153 


How  ancient  and  atrocious  war  is!  As  old  as 
Satan;  and  will  continue  to  write  its  history  in 
blood  as  long  as  the  devil  of  avarice,  ambition 
and  revenge  rules  human  hearts.  At  last,  steady 
and  hungry  enough  to  break  my  fast,  I wel- 
comed the  call,  “Roast  beef  and  dinner.” 

What  a menu!  How  I obeyed  the  Bible  com- 
mand to  eat  what  was  set  before  me,  “asking 
no  questions” — except  for  more — till  the  band 
played  “America”  and  we  sang,  at  the  table  like 
naughty  little  boys.  When  it  struck  up  the  “An- 
vil Chorus,”  I improvised  a whole  blacksmith 
shop  with  my  cut  glass  tumblers  and  accidentally 
shivered  them  into  a hundred  pieces.  Strange 
conduct — but  circumstances  of  salt  air,  the 
poetry  of  motion  and  musical  commotion  alter 
cases. 

Tomorrow  Greece,  where  song  and  statuary  lit 
their  torch!  Was  nature  a little  jealous  and 
came  in  the  night  before  with  a strangely  beau- 
tiful picture?  Oh,  for  a Beethoven  to  compose 
another  “Moonlight  Sonata,”  as,  standing  in  the 
bow,  we  sped  towards  a cloud  bank  with  a big 
moon  behind  it  silvering  its  edges;  slowly  the 
cloud  grew  light,  assumed  the  form  of  Angelo's 
“David,”  and  held  up  the  silver  globe  as  an  of- 
fering from  the  sea  to  the  sky. 

How  much  more  of  painting  and  statuary 


154 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


there  is  in  heaven,  earth  and  sea  than  is  dreamed 
of  in  our  artist  philosophy. 

“The  Isles  of  Greece,  where  burning  Sappho 
loved  and  sung,”  are  brown,  with  rugged  out- 
line, green  with  figures  of  trees,  gray  with  vil- 
lages, or  white  with  temple-crowned  crests.  J. 
L.  Stoddard  has  said,  “To  sail  on  Grecian  waters 
is  to  float  through  history;  the  very  islands  they 
caress  have  been  cradles  of  fables,  poesy  and 
history.  From  each  has  sprung  a temple,  statue, 
poem,  or,  at  least,  a myth,  which  still  exists  to 
furnish  joy  and  inspiration  to  the  world.”' 

We  dropped  anchor  in  the  old  harbor, 
within  a short  distance  of  the  town  Pi- 
raeus, which  is  the  port  of  Athens.  It  was 
busy  with  traffic  of  the  day,  but  above  it  rose 
the  murmur  of  the  blue  water  which  in  Greek 
history  and  poetry  told  of  the  ships  which  swept 
on  to  Salamis  to  destroy  Xerxes’  fleet. 

We  landed  in  a tender  and  were  as- 
saulted with  tenderloin  sights  before  we  reached 
the  main  street,  with  its  big  monument, 
where  fighting,  smoking,  shopping  and  drinking 
seemed  to  be  the  chief  pastimes.  But  what  else 
can  you  expect  men  to  do  who  are  the  house- 
keepers? Mr.  Hubby  goes  out  early  in  the 
morning,  orders  the  day’s  bill  of  fare  and  tells 
the  delivery  boy  how  he  wants  it  served.  The 


GREECE.  AND  MARS  HILL. 


155 


head  of  the  house  could  cook  it  himself,  if  he 
pleased,  as  well  as  his  wife  or  daughter,  but  pre- 
fers to  just  boss  the  job.  The  Greeks  take  a 
little  fruit  and  coffee  for  breakfast;  at  noon  they 
regale  themselves  more  substantially.  Like 
some  other  people,  they  enjoy  a nap  after  din- 
ner, only  they  generally  prolong  it  until  four 
o’clock.  It  would  have  been  as  impolite  for  me 
to  call  upon  a Greek  at  this  time  as  for  him  to 
wake  me  up  at  a corresponding  hour  in  the 
morning.  After  this  long  siesta,  the  native  eats 
and  drinks  a little  more  and  manages  to  exist 
until  nine  or  ten  o’clock,  when  he  has  the  meal 
of  the  day. 

Prince  George’s  boat,  manned  by  handsome- 
faced, well-dressed  sailors,  rowed  by  us.  They 
sang  something  in  an  unknown  tongue.  We 
replied  by  floating  Old  Glory,  and  they  recog- 
nized it  by  raising  their  oars  in  a kind  of  salute. 

Five  miles  beyond  the  Piraeus  stands  a small, 
square-topped  hill,  which  we  scanned  through 
the  bottom  of  our  glass  and  discovered  to  be 
the  immortal  Acropolis.  Was  that  the  citadel 
Coxey  Xerxes  and  his  five  million  followers 
took  five  hundred  years  ago,  in  spite  of  the 
officials’  “Keep  off  the  Grass?” 

Let  us  leave  by  train  this  city  of  commerce 
for  the  classic  shrine  of  Athens  and  walk  about 


156 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


with  the  shades  of  Plato  and  recall  the  days 
when  the  scepter  of  power  had  not  depart- 
ed. I had  read  and  dreamed  of  Greek  beauty 
all  my  life;  there  was  none  in  the  Piraeus;  there 
may  have  been  some  in  Athens,  but  not  for  us, 
and  I know  some  lovers  of  beauty  who  spent 
time  and  money  by  day  and  night  to  discover 
them,  but  in  vain.  The  only  woman  we  saw 
who  could  realize  our  ideal  of  Grecian  beauty 
was  in  our  car  from  Piraeus  to  Athens.  She 
sat  opposite  us,  and  seemed  to  possess  what  By- 
ron sang  of  to  his  landlady’s  daughter  in  his 
“Maid  of  Athens” — “Fringed  lids  and  blooming 
tinge,  and  roe-like  eyes,  tasteful  lip,  and  zone- 
encircled  waist.” 

“Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new,”  and  we 
found  modern  Athens  full  of  interest.  About 
one  hundred  years  ago  the  Turks  painted  the 
marble  white  town  red  and  wrought  ruin.  Today 
there  are  several  hundred  thousand  inhabitants. 
One  finds  a city  with  clean  streets,  attractive 
squares,  fine  residences,  beautiful  public  build- 
ings of  which  any  mayor  might  be  proud.  There 
are  many  good  hotels;  Alexandria,  Palace,  Splen- 
did or  Angleterre.  Wherever  you  go  to  dine 
things  are  well  cooked  in  Greece. 

The  Greek  is  a study.  There  is  a mystery 
about  him  which  eludes  you  like  Banquo’s 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL. 


157 


ghost  or  Don  Quixote’s  Dulciana.  When  Greek 
meets  tourist  he  tries  to  cheat  him.  One  morning 
I started  out  for  some  kodak  films.  For  an  hour 
I made  and  read  Greek  signs,  talked  with  my 
fingers  and  lips  and  at  last  found  them  for  $1.50 
a dozen.  Athens  is  a bootblack’s  paradise.  You 
may  have  your  shoes  shined  on  a fancy-shaped 
brass-headed  tacked  box  by  a classic  faced  na- 
tive. Without  your  guide  you  may  get  a cab 
and  drive  from  the  Acropolis  to  Plato’s  school 
and  spend  most  of  the  time  in  trying  to  pay 
your  driver,  a miserable,  mendacious  fellow,  who 
mocks  the  greatness  of  his  former  countrymen. 
He,  “no  understand  English.”  I tried  to  talk 
to  mine,  for  I had  studied  Greek  under  Dr.  J.  R. 
Boise  and  had  read  the  Classics  and  the  New 
Testament.  No  progress.  At  last  I tried  a para- 
graph from  an  old  sermon  on  the  state  of  the 
impenitent  dead,  and  that  fixed  him.  He  took 
the  fare  that  I offered  him  and  left  me  to  think 
of  Kai  Gar  hackmen  as  neither  generous  nor 
gentlemanly. 

The  king  has  a beautiful  palace  and  garden. 
So  I heard  and  saw  from  the  outside.  I tried 
the  “Come  into  the  garden,  Maude,”  act,  but  a 
policeman,  dressed  like  a ballet  girl  with  much 
larger  means  of  support,  said,  “Lego,”  and  stood 
as  the  guard  at  Eden.  I told  him  with  an  “alia” 


158 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


to  give  my  regards  to  the  royal  couple  who 
seemed  to  have  overslept,  and  tell  them  I would 
call  again  later  or  be  pleased  to  meet  them  in 
the  West. 

I was  more  fortunate  at  Dr.  Schliemann’s  resi- 
dence; a dream  of  pure  Pentclic  marble  adorned 
with  beautiful  groups  of  statues;  a monument 
to  the  great  scholar  and  explorer  of  Troy.  I 
have  a photograph  of  it  with  two  companions 
near  the  front  steps.  The  contrast  between  them 
and  the  classic  statues  on  the  roof  would  make 
you  smile  and  them  cry. 

“The  little  church  around  the  corner,”  of  Al- 
pha or  Omega  street,  was  a good  specimen  of 
Byzantine  architecture  with  its  round  arch,  dome 
pillar,  circle  and  cross.  We  entered  rever- 
ently, for  a funeral  service  was  being  held.  We 
did  not  understand  the  sermon  or  ritual,  but  we 
could  read  the  dark  grief  lines  in  the  mourners’ 
faces,  which  required  more  than  earthly  candles 
to  illuminate. 

The  Greek  parliament  was  in  session  one 
night.  We  occupied  the  visitors’  section  and 
found  the  speeches  quite  as  intelligible  as  some 
we  had  heard  in  Washington. 

I met  the  Greeks  at  home  and  found  them 
Greeks  in  spite  of  invasions  and  influx  of  Slavs, 
Wallachains  and  Albanians.  They  speak  a lan- 


i 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL. 


159 


guage  which  is  less  unlike  the  speech  of  Homer 
than  the  English  of  today  is  different  from  the 
talk  of  Chaucer. 

They  have  been  independent  less  than  seventy 
years,  after  centuries  of  Turkish  misrule,  yet 
have  achieved  wonderful  things.  They  do  not 
equal  the  art  and  philosophy  of  the  past,  but  the 
same  may  be  said  of  Italy,  which  had  but  one 
Raphael  and  Angelo;  Germany  but  one  Schiller 
and  Goethe,  and  England  but  one  Shakespeare. 

They  were  not  building  a new  Parthenon,  but 
seemed  to  appreciate  the  old  one  and  were  re- 
pairing it,  and  erecting  splendid  museums  free 
for  all.  I looked  for  another  Aristotle  and  found 
his  academy  closed,  but  saw  public  schools  and 
buildings  for  higher  education  in  law,  medicine, 
art,  pharmacy  and  theology. 

Every  Grecian  is  a politician  and  knows  what 
is  best  for  his  country.  Editors  write  it  in  the 
papers,  men  talk  it  on  the  street  corners  and 
waiters  in  the  cafes.  They  have  a king,  a right 
royal  fellow,  but  a democratic  spirit  prevails.  I 
believe  the  constitution  has  abolished  titles  of 
nobility.  Among  the  Greeks  a man  is  “every 
inch  a king.” 

The  country  is  weighed  down  with  debt,  like 
old  Sinbad,  yet  Greece  is  hopeful  and  the  na- 
tions who  became  her  creditors,  and  took  Shy- 


i6o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


lock  for  a patron  saint,  deserve  to  wait  until  the 
middle  of  an  indefinite  month  for  their  pay. 

I heard  and  saw  that  honesty  was  not  an  over- 
worked virtue  among  the  inhabitants,  but  it  is 
universally  admitted  the  Greeks  have  a morality 
above  their  European  neighbors,  and  tneir  wo- 
men can  teach  modesty  and  purity  to  many  con- 
tinental and  American  cities.  The  Greek  is  a 
volatile,  excitable  compound,  and  gets  angry  eas- 
ily. Statistics  prove  that  most  of  the  crime  re- 
sults from  violence. 

The  people  are  as  religious  today  as  in  Paul’s 
time  and  have  countless  known  and  “unknown” 
altars  and  sacred  places  where  they  worship,  to 
drive  a plow  through  which  would  be  infamy. 
But  their  religion  seems  to  be  a kind  of  national 
affair,  something  to  be  fought  for  if  necessary, 
but  not  intellectually  or  spiritually  apprehended 
personally.  A good  authority  declares:  “The 

Greek  priests  are  not  as  well  educated  as  those 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  church,  but  their  morals 
are  incalculably  higher.”  They  generally  receive 
no  pay  for  public  services  and,  like  Paul,  must 
“work”  for  themselves.  They  may  marry  once, 
but  when  they  are  made  bishops  must  renounce 
their  wife  and  children.  Who  supports  the  fam- 
ily then?  I don’t  know. 

Evangelical  and  colporteur  efforts  have  been 


READING  PAUL’S  SERMON  ON  MARS  HILL 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL.  161 

attended  with  some  success,  though  proselyting 
is  not  popular.  '‘Protestants  may  convert  Mos- 
lems, and  Moslems  Protestants,  but  neither  must 
try  to  convert  an  orthodox  Greek.” 

The  Greeks  are  very  proud  of  their  Academy 
of  Science.  Who  wouldn’t  be?  Of  marble,  rows 
of  Ionic  columns,  and  sculptures  in  the  pediment 
modeled  after  those  which  adorned  the  shrines 
of  the  Acropolis  two  thousand  years  ago.  Two 
lofty  columns  on  each  side  in  the  foreground  are 
crowned  with  the  religious  figures  of  Apollo  and 
Minerva,  while  below  them  at  the  steps  are 
statues  of  their  philosophical  Socrates  and  Plato. 
America  must  have  a worthy  temple  of  fame  for 
some  of  her  famous  children,  but  let  it  be  mod- 
eled after  this  one  as  soon  as  we  graduate  our 
embodiment  of  beauty  in  Grover  Cleveland,  wis- 
dom in  Bryan,  philosophy  in  Bill  Nye  and  re- 
ligion in  Ingersoll. 

I raced  to  the  Stadium.  It  has  been  excavated 
and  refurnished  with  marble  seats  enough  to  ac- 
commodate sixty  thousand  people.  The 
Olympian  games  were  the  old  sports’  head- 
quarters, and  even  now  make  interesting 
reading,  as  much  as  golf  or  football.  In 
1896  there  was  an  international  contest 
here  of  long  jumps  and  throwing  of  the  dis- 
cus, and  I recall  with  pleasure  how  some  Ameri- 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


162 

cans  took  the  prizes,  and  Old  Glory  and  the 
eagle  flew  high.  Paul  must  have  attended  the 
races  here,  for  he  repeatedly  uses  figures  of 
speech,  such  as  “Running  a race,,,  “Corruptible 
garland.”  Why  shouldn’t  he  have  been  a “good 
mixer”  if  he  hoped  to  do  the  people  good? 

A place  of  great  interest  is  Hadrian’s  Arch, 
of  the  second  century  A.  D.,  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion on  one  portal,  “This  is  Athens,  the  old  city 
of  Theseus,”  and  on  the  other  side,  “This  is  the 
new  city  of  Hadrian,  not  that  of  Theseus.”  It 
was  the  doorway  between  the  conquered  Gre- 
cians and  the  victorious  Romans. 

Athens  is  called  the  most  famous  city  in  the 
world.  You  would  not  think  so  from  what  I 
have  told  you  thus  far.  Why  then?  Not  because 
of  its  size,  or  wealth,  or  situation,  or  climate,  or 
surroundings,  but  because  she  was  the  mother  of 
heroes  and  historians,  sculptors  and  statesmen, 
poets  and  patriots.  Byron  sings,  “Where  e’er 
we  tread  ’tis  haunted,  holy  ground.”  Poor  By- 
ron ! The  Greeks  wanted  him  buried  here  be- 
cause of  his  sympathy,  friendly  and  financial  help 
against  their  Turkish  enemies.  Dying,  he  said: 
“Now  I shall  go  to  sleep.”  Did  he?  They  have 
built  a beautiful  monument  to  his  memory. 

I spoke  on  the  platform  of  Demosthenes,  that 
rough,  rock  place  where  the  great  orator  ad- 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL.  163 

dressed  the  Athenians  gathered  in  the  market 
place  which  stood  opposite. 

I visited  the  prison  of  Socrates,  that  dark  hole 
cut  in  the  rock,  where  the  foremost  Greek  of  all 
the  world  dwelt  and  discussed  and  dauntlessly 
took  the  death  potion  which  crowned  him  with 
immortality. 

On  the  principle  of  taking  everything  not 
nailed  down,  Athens  has  been  robbed  from  the 
time  of  Nero  to  Lord  Elgin,  until  she  has  only 
models  and  casts  of  some  of  her  most  noted 
works  in  stone,  bronze,  gold,  marble  and  ivory. 
But  some  things  remain  unmoved  from  the  “tooth 
of  time  and  razure  of  oblivion.”  I worshipped  at 
the  Temple  of  Theseus,  dedicated  to  the  demi- 
god and  the  god  hero  who  appeared  at  the  nick 
of  time  at  Marathon  to  help  the  Greeks  drive 
out  the  invading  Persians.  I visited  the  Odeon, 
with  the  climbing  arches  of  the  Coliseum,  in 
which  a full  orchestra  meant  eight  thousand 
people,  but  its  voice  of  singer  and  applause  of 
listener  had  died  away  on  the  passing  breeze. 
Next  to  it  stands  the  ruins  of  the  Theater  of 
Bacchus,  two  thousand  four  hundred  years  old, 
with  amphitheater  room  for  thirty  thousand 
people,  seats  of  marble,  sky  for  a roof, 
where  the  plays  of  Sophocles  were  acted 
and  are  now  studies  for  models,  unsurpased  by 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


164 

Shakespeare.  I sat  in  the  ancient  chair  of  an 
Athenian  magistrate  whose  name  was  carved 
upon  it,  and  looked  at  the  grotesque  statues  sup- 
porting the  stage  of  the  theater  and  wished  they 
could  tell  me  what  things  they  had  heard  and 
seen. 

I entered  the  portico  of  the  Temple  of  Hercu- 
les, supported  by  caryatides  which  are  as  Pentelic 
pink  and  loaf  sugar  sweet  as  their  real  sisters 
were  thousands  of  years  ago.  I stood  in  the 
Temple  of  “Wingless  Victory.”  It  contained  at 
one  time  the  statue  of  a goddess — without  wings, 
that  she  might  never  leave  Athens.  Like  Noah’s 
dove,  she  has  found  rest  for  her  feet. 

Greece  was  called  the  center  of  the  world.  At- 
tica of  Greece,  Athens  of  Attica,  the  Acropolis 
of  Athens,  and  the  Parthenon  the  center  of  the 
Acropolis.  It  is  the  monarch  of  all  the  beautiful 
ruins  of  the  world.  History  accords  it  the  finest 
gallery  of  art  and  statues  ever  seen.  Judged 
merely  by  the  chips  and  specimens  you  stumble 
over,  Phidias  and  Praxiteles  were  masters,  Col- 
umns, bas-reliefs,  fringes,  busts,  figures  and 
statues  lead  one  to  wonder  whether  he  is  in  fairy 
land  or  in  a cemetery  with  its  resurrected  in- 
mates. 

The  Parthenon  was  to  Athens  what  Solomon’s 
Temple  was  to  Jerusalem,  and  was  the  perfec- 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL. 


165 


tion  of  architecture.  Though  its  roof  was  blown 
off,  statues  demolished  and  columns  laid  low,  its 
glory  lost  in  a “shell  game”  which  the  Venetians 
played  by  dropping  a ball  into  a powder  maga- 
zine the  Turks  had  there,  much  was  left,  and  the 
Improvement  Society  is  restoring  some  of  the 
former  glory.  With  its  statue  of  Minerva  in 
gold  and  ivory,  forty  feet  high,  the  Acropolis  and 
the  Parthenon  must  have  appeared  to  the  sailors 
and  citizens  and  soldiers  like  an  “aerolite  cast 
from  the  noonday  sun,  its  temples  petrified 
foam;  its  ruins  white  breakers  on  the  great  ocean 
of  time.” 

Art  is  not  a mere  fad  or  fanaticism.  The  All 
Beautiful  inspires  man  with  ideas  which  he  em- 
bodies in  palace,  temples,  sculpture  and  paint- 
ing. Perhaps  the  Greeks  borrowed  from  the 
Egyptian,  Phoenecian  and  Assyrian,  but  his 
architecture  and  statuary  show  vastly  increased 
executive  skill.  It  may  be  too  strong  to  say, 
“No  Athens,  no  Florence,  no  Phidias’  Jupiter, 
no  Angelo’s  Moses,”  but  we  must  admit  the 
Greeks  were  framers  of  the  modern  art  world, 
in  the  principles  which  we  have  not  much  im- 
proved on.  Later  the  ideas  of  manly  strength 
and  womanly  beauty  expressed  in  marble  de- 
generated until  the  time  of  Zeuxis  and  Apelles. 
That  matter  was  not  overcome  by  spirit,  was 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


1 66 

often  plain  to  our  startled,  blushing  tourists  as 
they  entered  cemeteries  and  galleries  of  >ld  art. 
The  moral  effect  of  marble  is  well  maintained 
to  depend  more  on  the  within  than  the  without, 
on  what  is  done  rather  than  desired,  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  men  whose  forms  are  carved. 

I climbed  up  sixteen  rocky  steps  and  stood 
upon  Mars  Hill,  looked  at  the  regality  of  the  new 
city  and  the  ruins  of  the  old,  and  tried  to  imagine 
the  scene  as  Paul  witnessed  it  with  its  altars, 
temples  and  philosophical  people.  By  request  of 
Dr.  Pentalagon,  I took  out  my  Bible,  turned  to 
Acts  17:16,  34,  and  read  Paul’s  speech  to  the 
Grecians  on  Mars  Hill.  What  a pulpit!  Per- 
haps Paul  came  up  Minerva  street,  across  Tri- 
pod avenue,  and  saw  more  gods  than  men  or 
women,  and  became  indignant  at  the  idolatry. 
When  some  of  the  gossiping  Greeks  asked  him: 
“What  is  the  news?”  he  told  them:  “Jesus  and 
the  resurrection,  two  deities  you  know  nothing 
about.”  They  invited  him  to  come  up  to  the 
Aeropagus,  the  place  where  the  supreme  court 
held  its  nightly  open-air  sessions,  and  where 
Socrates  and  Demosthenes  had  often  stood. 

What  a preacher ! Renan  called  him  “The 
little  ugly  Jew,”  but  with  the  fire  of  love’s  logic, 
his  stature  was  forgotten,  and  he  stood  a relig- 
ious iconoclast,  with  a courage  commended  to 


GREECE  AND  MARS  HILL.  1 6; 

cotton-stringed  preachers  of  today,  who  cater  to 
public  taste  and  influential  pew-holders. 

What  a sermon!  Believing  their  restless, 
worldly  condition  was  because  their  art  had  be- 
come religion  and  religion  their_art,  in  their 
worship  of  the  beautiful  and  the  human,  he  rea- 
soned to  them  of  creation,  providence,  grace,  the 
divine  fatherhood  of  God  and  brotherhood  of 
man,  in  a polite,  practical  and  poetical  manner. 

What  an  audience  of  people!  Stoics,  Epicu- 
reans and  Academicians,  together  with  hangers 
on,  all  of  whom  represented  classes  which  had 
not  been  made  perfect  by  the  beauty  of  their  art. 

What  a result!  Some  mocked,  others  pro- 
crastinated, a few  believed,  just  as  people  do 
now.  All  the  minister  can  do  is  to  be  faithful — • 
results  are  God’s. 

I found  no  statue  erected  to  commemorate 
Paul’s  greatness,  but  I believe  he  did  more  to 
immortalize  Athens  than  Phidias  with  his  stat- 
ues, Demosthenes  with  his  orations,  and  Hadrian 
with  his  conquests.  His  church  at  Corinth,  epis- 
tles of  the  New  Testament,  churches  and  cathed- 
rals bearing  his  name,  and  his  influence  in  the 
Christian  thought  of  today  are  eternal  monu- 
ments. 

Paul  admitted  “he  was  debtor  to  the  Greek,” 
so  do  we  in  the  language  of  Homer,  the  archi- 


i68 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tecture  of  the  Parthenon,  the  sculpture  of  Phidi- 
as, the  philosophy  of  Plato,  the  tragedy  of  So- 
phocles, the  morals  of  Socrates,  and  the  patriot- 
ism of  Marathon  and  Thermopylae. 

We  leave  Greece,  feeling  “Fair  Greece!  Sad 
relic  of  departed  worth!  Immortal,  though  no 
more;  though  fallen,  great !” 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

NAPLES  AND  VESUVIUS. 

“See  Naples  and  Die,”  but  I nearly  died  with 
sea-sickness  the  day  before  I saw  it.  Half 
dressed,  I crawled  on  deck,  threw  myself  in  a 
steamer  chair  and  lay  there  from  io  a.  m.  till  6 
p.  in.  It  was  Sunday  and  there  was  service  in 
the  cabin,  but  my  thoughts  were  on  my  stomach 
and  not  on  my  soul.  Mr.  Cargill  passed 
by  me  like  the  ancient  priest  and  Levite, 
leaving  me  to  think  of  the  story  of  the 
sea  captain  who  said,  “There’s  no  hope,  the  ship 
is  doomed.  In  an  hour  we’ll  all  be  dead,”  to 
which  the  sick  passenger  replied  “thank  heav- 
en.” 

Leaving  Greece,  we  steamed  through  the  nar- 
row straits  of  Messina,  passed  Scylla  and  Cha- 


NAPLES  AND  VESUVIUS. 


169 


rybdis,  looked  at  Aetna  and  Stromboli,  those 
giants  ready  to  illumine  at  short  notice,  and  at 
last  dropped  anchor  in  the  Bay  of  Naples,  where 
the  winds  whisper  and  the  weaves  murmur  and 
Vesuvius  flames  the  history  of  Homer,  Horace 
and  Humbert.  Yonder  was  Posolippo,  the  place 
of  Virgil’s  tomb;  Pozzuoli,  Paul’s  landing  place; 
Nisidia,  the  resort  of  Brutus  and  Cicero;  Baiae, 
the  Newport  and  Saratoga  of  the  Roman  w^orld; 
Sorrento,  famous  for  its  wrood  workers  and  its 
ruined  temple  of  Neptune;  Amalfi,  once  com- 
mercially and  politically  powerful,  now  pictur- 
esque with  its  macaroni  and  soap  manufactories; 
Ischia,  a siren  to  lure  with  her  beauty  and  de- 
stroy with  earthquake  embrace;  Capri,  with  her 
cave  of  nymphs,  dark  blue  roof  and  bright  blue 
water,  the  old  home  of  Tiberius,  that  villainous 
compound,  “half  mud,  half  blood,”  who  was 
hated  as  much  as  he  hated. 

Naples  is  a beautiful  picture  with  its  gray 
buildings,  castled  St.  Elmo  and  two  headed  Ve- 
suvius set  in  a frame  of  blue  bay,  green  fields  and 
trees.  Minstrel  players  and  singers  row^ed  out  to 
our  vessel  and  serenaded  us  writh,  “Faniculi, 
Fanicula,”  “Trovatore,”  and  “Santa  Lucia.”  We 
drove  through  the  new  and  old  part  of  the  city, 
visited  its  wonderful  aquarium,  new  domed  gal- 
lery and  astonishing  museum,  and  threaded  the 


170 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


old  road  tunnels.  As  usual,  we  were  disillu- 
sioned. The  houses  were  high,  the  streets  nar- 
row, the  animals  were  numerous,  dirty  linen  was 
washed  in  public  and  ornamented  the  clothes 
lines  which  zigzagged  like  telegraph  wires 
across  the  street,  while  from  balconies  overhead 
gaily  dressed  and  undressed  women  nodded  their 
heads  to  the  passers  below  like  birds  in  a cage. 

The  quay  of  Santa  Lucia  is  like  a sewer  into 
which  all  the  live  refuse  of  the  narrow  streets 
flows.  The  native  milkman  drives  his  cows  and 
goats  in  the  front  of  a house  and  fills  the  bottles 
lowered  by  a string  from  the  upper  window;  no 
pump  in  theirs.  On  all  sides  the  hungry  find 
portable  restaurants  with  fish,  fruit,  soup,  cake 
and  macaroni.  Like  the  Arabs,  one  meets  story 
tellers,  who  read  and  recite  with  voice  and  ges- 
ture of  comedy  and  tragedy.  If  you  are  ignor- 
ant, but  want  to  write  on  love,  war,  business, 
sickness  or  death,  you  may  find  a public  letter 
writer  or  an  amanuensis.  The  people  of  the 
“evil  eye”  flourish  here.  You  defend  yourself 
against  their  influence  by  pointing  -outward  the 
fore  and  little  finger,  keeping  the  rest  of  the 
hand  closed.  I entered  a macaroni  shop,  a dirty 
place,  with  a dirty  man,  who  made  the  dirty 
stuff.  Just  the  thought  of  it  haunts  me.  The 
poverty  of  these  Neapolitans  is  appalling.  Chil- 


NAPLES  AND  VESUVIUS. 


171 


dren  are  born  worse  than  orphans.  They  eat  the 
refuse  like  Constantinople  dogs,  live  in  stolen 
rags,  sleep  on  the  street  or  church  steps,  die  of 
starvation  and  then  are  dropped  into  the  Campo 
Santo  as  we  throw  a shovelful  of  coal  into  a 
bin. 

The  people  are  taxed  to  death  on  all  they  eat 
and  drink  and  wear.  If  Italy  was  content  to  be 
herself  in  art  and  history  and  did  not  have  a 
vaulting  ambition  for  the  prestige  of  other  Eu- 
ropean powers,  her  condition  would  be  far  dif- 
ferent. Squalor  and  vice  meet  us  at  every  cor- 
ner. The  decencies  of  life  are  outraged  in  broad 
daylight.  Above  the  vine  and  olive  rises  the 
odor  of  an  alley  in  Chinatown,  ’Frisco. 

We  leave  Naples  for  Vesuvius.  Busy  guides 
buzz  around  us  who  would  make  us  believe  all 
the  cardinal  virtues  bloomed  in  their  soul,  but 
their  “Nobilissimo  signor,  il  Monte”  suggests  a 
three-card  monte  man.  “Excelsior,”  we  climb 
and  are  met  by  whistlers,  singers  and  players 
who  sing  the  money  out  of  our  hands.  “Excel- 
sior,” over  vine-clad  hills,  drinking  in  the  sun 
and  sticking  their  roots  into  warm  lava  soil, 
growing  the  grapes  and  the  wine,  “Lachryma 
Christi,”  of  far-famed  flavor.  “Tears  of  Christ!” 
What  a blasphemy  it  seems  to  us.  Yet  an  Italian 
says  it  as  easily  as  a Greek  does  Jupiter.  The 


172 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


drink  is  more  innocent  than  its  name  or  the  na- 
tives. In  this  mountain  vineyard  you  drink  it  in 
its  purity.  Once  more  the  Creator  has  worked 
his  miracle  of  changing  water  into  wine.  The 
water  here  is  always  bad,  and  never  worse  than 
when  these  Gozzolinas  reverse  the  Cana  miracle 
and  change  the  wine  to  water,  a thing  you  often 
find  when  you  reach  your  hotel.  Still  upward 
to  the  observatory,  shrouded  by  a Muir  glacier 
of  black  billowy  lava,  where  wise  men  study  the 
needle’s  vibrations  which  indicate  the  activity  of 
the  volcano.  “Excelsior,”  along  a trail  of  turbu- 
lent twisted  lava,  black  as  death  and  worse  than 
Laocoon’s  struggle,  to  a place  from  which  we 
view  a white  blue  sky  above,  a broad  blue  bay 
beneath  and  Naples  to  the  right  with  its  curve 
and  crag,  and  gray  white  houses  nestling  in 
olive  and  orange  gardens. 

Vesuvius  is  above  us  with  its  smoke  curling, 
fire  belching  peak  in  strange  contrast  with  the 
sky  above  and  fruit  fields  beneath.  From  this 
point  you  may  climb  by  mule  a la  Pike’s  Peak 
or  go  by  railcar  wire-rope  affair  which  pulls  you 
up  an  angle  of  forty-five  to  sixty  degrees  until 
you  are  within  three  hundred  feet  of  the  crater. 
From  this  spot  you  may  walk  in  ashes  ankle 
deep  or  sit  on  men’s  shoulders  and  be  carried  in 
a chair.  We  walked  to  the  music  of  Gehenna 


NAPLES  AND  VESUVIUS. 


173 


> 

groans,  burned  our  shoes  and  fingers  in  the  hot 
sand  and  steam,  passed  dangerous  and  deep 
places,  ragged  and  ruinous  crevices  until  we 
looked  into  the  crater,  which  resembles  a devil’s 
circus  ring.  Goethe  has  well  compared  Vesuvi- 
us to  a “peak  of  hell  rising  out  of  paradise.” 
To  me  it  was  the  fittest  image  of  the  lake  that 
burns  with  fire  and  brimstone.  It  is  difficult  to 
think  that  this  fire-crowned  volcano,  this  shrine 
of  Erebus,  this  sacrificial  altar  which  claimed 
so  many  victims  in  79  A.  D.,  was  once  a fine  and 
fertile  field,  the  home  of  Sparticus,  and  orna- 
mented with  a temple. 

Below  lie  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  and 
we  climbed  down  the  mountain  side.  Guides 
ran  ahead  with  clubs  to  ward  off  the 
robbers  and  torches  to  guide  the  way. 
My  friend’s  horse  slipped  eight  feet  down 
the  mountain  side  through  his  driver’s 
drunken  carelessness,  causing  him  to  utter  some 
exclamations  not  found  in  Old  or  New  Testa- 
ment writing.  In  the  scramble  I lost  the  silver 
tag  of  my  valise  bearing  the  initials  “G.  L.  M.” 
I suppose  some  native  will  wear  it  as  a charm, 
or  it  may  be  dug  up  in  the  future  as  a relic. 

I strolled  up  the  streets  of  tombs  by  old  monu- 
ments to  the  gate  of  the  old  town  and  went 
through  where  Augustus,  Cicero,  Seneca,  and 


174 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Pliny  had  gone,  solacing,  studying  and  satisfying 
themselves  with  the  problems  of  government, 
literature  and  philosophy.  The  city  has  come 
forth  like  Lazarus  from  the  grave.  Houses, 
floors,  bronze  lamps,  mosaics  of  beast  and  bird, 
frescoes  of  Venus  and  Adonis  stare  at  us.  We 
walk  through  narrow  streets,  see  old  chariot 
wheel  ruts,  foot-marked  stepping  stones  and  a 
wilderness  of  walls,  broken  pillars,  statues, 
bronzes,  cameos  and  Pompeiian  color.  The 
city  was  not  large,  its  people  were  small,  drove 
small  vehicles,  lived  in  small  houses,  slept  in 
small  beds  and  attached  small  importance  to  the 
principles  of  Mount  Sinai  or  the  sermonic  moun- 
tain. 

Yonder  was  an  old  Curiosity  Shop  filled  with 
things  the  proprietor  was  too  hurried  to  take  in 
his  fire  escape.  Fruits  and  nuts  in  glass  jars, 
drugs  and  medicines,  pill  boxes  and  surgical  in- 
struments. 

A bake  shop  with  loaves  of  crisp,  brown  baked 
bread,  with  the  maker’s  name  stamped  upon 
them.  A wine  room  with  jars  bearing  the  name 
and  date  of  the  vintage,  and  a kind  of  depart- 
ment store  with  glass  bottles,  vases,  spoons, 
springs,  bells,  buckles,  rings,  money  chest,  pots 
and  pans,  culinary  outfit,  candelabra,  locks,  ink- 
stands  and  earth  lamps.  You  paid  your  money 


NAPLES  AND  VESUVIUS. 


i/5 


and  you  took  your  choice.  I am  sure  you  had 
to  pay,  for  not  far  away  was  the  sign  “Cave 
Canem”  (look  out  for  the  dog). 

Looking  at  the  vast  amphitheater,  forum,  villa 
of  Diomede,  temple  of  Isis,  we  peopled  the  place 
with  Bulwer’s  Nydia,  Glaucus,  Arbaces  and 
lone.  They  lived  and  labored  and  loved  as  men 
and  women  do  now;  the  scene  appealed  to  our 
hearts.  Many  of  the  inhabitants  of  Pompeii,  like 
those  of  Herculaneum,  had  warning  and  fled. 
The  faithful  Roman  soldiers  remained  at  their 
posts  of  duty  until  death  relieved  them. 

The  explorers  of  the  buried  city  found  these 
human  forms  encased  in  molds  of  ashes,  so  that 
when  liquid  plaster  of  Paris  was  poured  in 
them  there  appeared  the  life-like  figures  of  the 
ancient  dead.  In  the  ashes  of  Pompeii  one  reads 
the  record  of  the  ancient  city.  Her  destruction 
was  in  truth  her  preservation. 

If  the  history  of  art  is  the  history  of  civiliza- 
tion, then  these  poor  people  were  beautiful  bar- 
barians. Their  frescoes,  bronze  and  sculpture 
are  evidences  of  moral  suicide.  If  we  were  curi- 
ous in  Egypt  and  startled  in  Greece,  we  were 
shocked  by  what  we  saw  in  the  museum  room  at 
Naples  and  private  compartments  in  Pompeii. 
Manly  strength  and  womanly  beauty  were  made 
“procuress  to  the  lords  of  hell/* 


i/6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


It  was  midnight  and  all  was  still;  I sat  on 
deck  of  the  big  ship  which  seemed  to  rest  on  the 
blue  water  like  a dove  of  peace:  The  sun  had 
gone  down,  flooding  the  bay  with  golden  splen- 
dor; the  stars  looked  down  softly  on  the  twink- 
ling lights  along  the  curved  shore;  the  moon 
rose,  filling  the  scene  with  frosted  silver;  Vesuvi- 
us held  up  her  red  lamp  for  me  to  read  the  pages 
of  Italy’s  history  until  tired,  I fell  asleep  to 
dream  of  home  and  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 

I have  been  in  the  Eternal  City,  have  inhaled 
Forum  dust,  smelt  Campagna  decay,  barked  my 
shins  on  Coliseum  ruins,  choked  my  lungs  with 
catacomb  gas,  strained  my  neck  at  Vatican  pic- 
tures, crawled  through  Cloaca  Maxima  sewers 
until  I wonder  “where  I’m  at.”  I was  driven 
to  the  Hotel  Minerva,  the  place  for  a wise  man, 
located  near  the  Pantheon,  where  one  who  pants 
for  immortality  may  be  suited  after  death.  My 
room  was  99,  assigned  me  by  the  porter,  who  in- 
troduced me  to  a femme  de  chambre,  whose 
looks,  words  and  actions  pointed  out  everything 


THEATRE  OF  BACCHUS 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


1 77 


I might  need  or  want  for  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  or  days.  Rome  is  worse  than  “Lost  in 
New  York”  without  a guide.  One  is  confused 
with  buildings,  fountains,  parks,  churches, 
stores,  soldiers,  priests  and  police.  I wanted  a 
real  guide,  not  a fool,  parrot  or  comedian,  and  I 
found  him  in  Professor  Reynaud,  a gentleman 
of  fine  appearance,  a scholar,  one  of  the  “noblest 
Romans  of  them  all.”  The  true  American  al- 
ways hustles,  but  I’ve  learned  that  while  others 
lazily  bury  their  noses  in  their  guide  books  the 
Yankee  listens  to  the  guide,  looks  around  and 
takes  in  more  in  fifteen  minutes  than  a “don’t 
you  know”  does  in  thirty. 

St.  Peter’s  is  modern  Rome.  We  visited  its 
square,  obelisk  and  cross,  great  fountains,  porti- 
coes, columns  and  statues.  The  view  of  the 
dome  without  is  diappointing,  because  it  is  hid 
be  the  facade,  but  within  you  find  a world 
of  bewildering  beauty.  Guide  books  and 
lecturers,  pictures  and  photographs  have  de- 
scribed it  all  so  often  that  I forbear.  It  must  be 
seen  to  be  appreciated.  As  to  the  architecture, 
I prefer  the  Gothic  of  the  Middle  Ages,  that  con- 
necting link  between  nature  and  religion.  The 
ambition  of  St.  Peter’s  builders  was  not  always 
good.  Pride,  power  and  prodigality  frequently 
reversed  the  proverb  and  robbed  Paul  to  pay 


178 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Peter.  The  bronze  of  the  Pantheon,  the  thrones 
of  the  Arabs  and  statues  of  Jupiter  all  find  place 
in  this  wonderful  building. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  popes  were  often 
the  patrons  and  preservers  of  art.  Madame  de 
Stael  describes  the  museum  of  the  Vatican  as, 
“That  palace  of  statues  where  we  see  the  hu- 
man form  deified  by  paganism  as  are  now  the 
thoughts  of  the  soul  by  Christianity.”  In  this 
palace  of  art  you  find  Laocoon,  Apollo  Belvi- 
dere,  Raphael’s  Transfiguration,  Angelo’s  fres- 
coes, deities,  heroes,  philosophers,  statesmen, 
libraries  and  antiquities  ad  infinitum. 

The  Pincian  Hill  is  the  central  part  of  Rome. 
It  is  a passing  show  of  all  the  climes  and  condi- 
tions of  people  in  the  world.  The  imperial  band 
played  splendidly,  we  listened  and  looked  at  the 
polyglot  crowd,  drove  among  statues,  busts, 
trees  and  shrubs,  when  suddently  my  driver 
dropped  his  lines,  removed  his  hat  and  said : “Le 
roi.”  I thought  he  was  crazy  and  like  a fellow 
riding  backwards  in  a car  who  never  sees  any- 
thing until  it  has  passed,  I saw  the  vanishing 
royalty,  and  said  : “Encore,  le  roi.”  He  whipped 
his  horse,  drove  to  the  other  side  of  the  park, 
where  we  met  King  Humbert  face  to  face,  and 
took  off  our  hats.  The  king  looked  a little  puz- 
zled, but  concluded  we  were  not  anarchists  with 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


i/9 


murderous  intent.  I wanted  another  view  and 
said,  “Encore”  for  a third  time.  Slowly  we  ap- 
proached his  highness,  I stood  up  in  my  car- 
riage and  waved  my  American  flag,  in  honor  of 
which  he  touched  his  hat  in  recognition  and 
smiled  a fraternal  gretting.  Little  did  I then 
think  of  the  foul  murder  that  was  so  soon  to 
follow. 

One  evening,  after  dinner,  I strolled  out  with 
a friend  beyond  Trajan's  column  to  a glove  store 
conducted  by  two  pretty  sisters.  I put  out  my 
hands  and  they  understood,  then  I rested  my 
elbows,  looked  up  into  the  face  of  one  of  them 
and  was  fitted  while  she  looked  down  and  smiled. 
They,  I mean  the  white  gloves,  were  so  nice  that 
I asked  a second  time  and  was  fitted  again  with 
a dark  pair,  and  her  eyes  to  match.  It  was  such 
a pleasant  occupation  that  I thought  I would 
make  it  “three  times  and  out,”  and  asked  for  an- 
other pair.  My  friend,  Fish,  was  as  nervous  as 
one  of  his  kinsmen  out  of  water,  but  I said: 
“That’s  all  right,  we  are  here  for  business.”  The 
girls  were  delighted,  but  I could  not  make  either 
of  them  understand  what  other  kind  I wanted. 
They  tried  nearly  all  the  shapes  and  colors  of 
gloves  in  the  store  until  at  last,  in  despair,  I un- 
buttoned my  vest  and  began  to  pull  off  my  coat, 
when  presto,  vite,  a box  of  “undressed”  kids  was 


i8o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


offered  me  and,  ’mid  a flush  and  flutter  all 
around,  I was  once  more  hand  in  glove  with 
the  establishment  and  went  out  with  a new  ex- 
perience and  three  pairs  of  good  gloves  for  about 
a dollar  and  fifty  cents. 

Rome,  Pagan,  Christian,  and  modern  is 
the  shrine  for  twenty  centuries  of  military, 
mental  and  moral  genius;  the  place  for 
artist,  pilgrim,  poet  and  scholar.  Compare 
Rome  to  the  Niobe  of  nations  and  say 
she  sits  ’mid  deserted  ruins  like  a lonely 
campfire  of  a past  nation,  the  past  wins  your  re- 
spect and  the  present  calls  forth  your  sympathy. 
They  builded  better  than  they  knew.  They  had 
some  master  masons  who  could  build  walls, 
arches,  and  aqueducts  which  are  giants  of  stone 
masonry  surviving  armies,  storms  and  nature’s 
decay;  symbols  of  a power  that  drew  and 
dragged  a Zenobia  and  Jugurtha  and  hold  us 
captive  today. 

Rome  has  many  churches.  “Domine  Quo 
Vadis,”  with  Peter’s  big  No.  io  foot 
prints,  a big  inspiration  to  novelists  and 
dramatists;  “St  Peter’s  in  Vinculo,”  with  its 
chains,  but  most  of  all,  its  Angelo’s  Moses,  that 
simple,  serene,  sublime  statue  which  withstands 
all  criticism  and  compels  us  to  say  with  its  mak- 
er, “speak  thou  canst;”  “St.  Paul’s  without  the 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


181 


walls,”  a dream  in  marble,  a forest  oi  columns 
and  wilderness  of  mosaics;  St.  John  Lateran, 
with  shrines,  relics  and  statues;  the  “Sancta 
Scala”  of  Pilate,  where  the  faithful  crawled  on 
hands  and  knees  counting  their  beads,  where  Lu- 
ther was  converted  and  partly  up  which  an  irrev- 
erent tourist  of  our  party  walked  with  hat  and 
shoes  on.  Material  structures  everywhere,  but 
“God  is  a spirit;”  I heard  music  and  saw  vest- 
ments, in  fact  everything  except  the  “simplicity 
of  the  Gospel.”  But  the  morning  cometh. 

Even  a good  man  can  get  lonesome  in  church, 
and  I was  glad  to  meet  my  Chicago  friend,  Mr. 
Goodspeed,  who  said  he  hadn’t  seen  me  for  fif- 
teen years  until  I was  racing  through  Cairo  with 
my  American  flag.  That  reminds  me  of  a mu- 
tual friend  in  Rome  and  Egypt,  the  Obelisk, 
eleven  of  which  have  adorned  the  Imperial  City. 
They  are  messengers  of  the  past  from  Joseph 
and  Moses.  Rome  the  Eternal  is  a modern  vil- 
lage compared  with  these  milestones  that  mark 
the  path  of  Egypt  to  eternity  in  that  early  time 
when  the  day  of  thought  struggled  through  the 
night  of  superstition  as  it  does  here  and  now. 
The  Roman  arch  is  famous;  the  Coliseum  has 
eighty  of  them,  and  since  I took  the  Royal  Arch 
degree  in  Masonry  I’ve  learned  to  appreciate 
them.  “Arch  of  Constantine,”  who  went  to 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


182 

make  a new  Rome  but  gave  the  old  one  a state 
religion;  “Arch  of  Titus,”  erected  by  his  brother 
Domitian  to  commemorate  Titus’  conquest  of 
Jerusalem;  its  sad  relief  of  the  sacred  candle- 
sticks carried  on  the  shoulders  of  exulting  heath- 
en, a commentary  on  the  “nations  that  forget 
God.” 

Rome’s  rule  conquered  and  civilized  from  the 
Pillars  of  Hercules  to  the  Euphrates  and  the 
chalk  cliffs  of  Scotland  to  the  cataracts  of  the 
Nile. 

The  Palatine  was  the  place  for  the  patricians, 
the  “400”  whose  sign  was  “no  plebs  need  ap- 
ply.” It  is  excavated  and  is  used  as  a museum 
of  famous  antiquities.  I was  so  interested  in  the 
thought  of  Domitian  and  Nero  that  I pressed  a 
lady’s  hand,  while  helping  her  over  the  ruins  un- 
til she  asked  me  if  I had  not  made  a mistake 
and  taken  her  hand  for  a lemon.  It  was  a tight 
squeeze. 

Rome’s  two  conquerors  were  arms  and  art; 
Rome  means  churches,  cathedrals,  palaces,  pic- 
tures, statuary,  mosaic  and  tapestry.  This  is 
the  artist’s  paradise,  and  home  folks  may  have 
clear  ideas  from  photos,  for  old  Sol  is  often 
more  accurate  than  a coarse  brush.  The  two 
sources  of  beauty,  shape  and  color,  are  often  met 
and  one  finds  the  realization  that  moral  beauty 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


183 


is  not  hostile  to  love  for  artistic  beauty.  As 
usual,  you  may  find  the  fates  and  not  the  graces, 
a Clotho  with  green  goggles,  a deaf  Lachesis 
and  a silly  Atropos  ogling  one  statue,  fingering 
another  and  criticising  a third. 

Scene — “What  wgrk  is  this?”  punching  it  with 
a blue  umbrella. 

“That,  madam,  is  Nydia,  the  blind  girl  of  Pom- 
peii.” 

“What  did  he  say?”  shouts  a deaf  one. 

“Nubia,  the  blind  girl  of  Bombay,”  responds 
No.  3,  trying  to  be  civil. 

But  who  can  forget  the  “Dying  Gladiator,” 
immortalized  by  Byron,  or  the  “Antinous,”  with 
its  perfect  anatomy  and  sweet,  sad  look? 

With  arms  and  art  there  is  artifice,  shadow  as 
well  as  sunlight.  Many  of  Rome’s  streets  are 
crooked,  narrow,  dirty  and  dark.  Via  Sacra, 
over  which  Horace  and  Caesar  walked,  is  sacred 
only  in  name ; the  Appian  way  was  once  a regal 
road,  but  now  ornamented  with  the  remains  of 
aqueducts  and  tombstones,  and  the  tomb  of  Cae- 
cilia  Metella  has  been  robbed  of  its  marble  for 
lime  and  buildings.  This  must  have  been  the 
place  where  “the  sheeted  dead  did  squeak  and 
gibber  in  the  streets  of  Rome.”  The  city  is  real- 
ly a cemetery  of  a nation  where  it  is  hard  to  dis- 


184 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tinguish  between  the  ashes  of  a dog  and  the  re- 
mains of  Nero  or  a Christian. 

No,  Rome  wasn’t  “built  in  a day,”  for 
much  time  was  required  to  take  even  a 
glimpse  of  the  Temple  of  Vesta,  whose  chaste 
light  still  burns.  Bridging  the  Tiber  is  San  An- 
gelo two  thousand  years  old  whose  arches  ech- 
oed to  the  thunder  of  brave  Horatius.  The 
baths  of  Caracalla  are  great  in  their  ruins  and 
remind  you  of  the  time  when  nobility  swam  or 
ate  and  drank  while  listening  to  lectures  and 
music.  How  the  heart  thrills  with  memories  of 
the  Forum,  that  stage  where  kings  played  trage- 
dy, but  which  looks  today  like  a sunken  square 
with  columns  and  arches  like  so  many  vege- 
tables in  a Dutch  cellar.  The  Temple  of  Saturn 
was  once  the  national  treasury,  but  now  is  bank- 
rupt with  only  eight  figureless  columns  left. 
There  stands  the  arch  of  Septimus  Severus  with 
the  bronze  car  of  victory  gone  oft  to  inglorious 
defeat.  I paused  at  Augustus’  golden  milestone, 
that  hub  from  which  all  roads  led  like  so  many 
spokes  to  the  circle  of  the  known  world.  I 
climbed  on  the  Rostra  platform  where  Cicero 
and  Caesar  had  thundered  eloquence,  and  I had 
just  commenced  to  make  a few  remarks  when 
I was  called  down.  Hadrian’s  Tomb  is  a big 
thing  one  thousand  feet  in  circumference.  It  has 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


185 

been  robbed  of  its  marble  and  statues,  and  I 
saw  Mr.  H.’s  giant  head  in  the  Vatican,  its  place 
being  usurped  by  a statue  of  the  Archangel 
Michael  sheathing  his  sword. 

All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a dull  boy 
and  I took  a cab  one  night  and  went  to  Con- 
stanzi  Teatro  to  hear  La  Boheme.  The  orches- 
tration was  superb.  These  Italians  are  fine 
musicians  and  the  leader  was  a veritable 
Damrosch.  He  was  a bundle  of  nerves;  head, 
arms  and  legs  were  on  so  many  wires,  while  his 
whole  body  swayed  and  jumped  as  if  he  stood  on 
tacks  or  had  swallowed  an  electric  machine. 
Fernando  de  Lucia  was  the  tenor,  and  the  finest 
I ever  heard  since  Campanini.  There  was  a big 
audience  of  boxes,  two  upper  tiers  and  pit.  The 
people  were  peculiar  in  their  applause  of  mouth, 
hand  and  glove.  Some  men  rose  between  the 
acts  with  their  hats  on  and  instead  of  going  out 
for  a drink,  stared  around  above  and  below. 
My  Italian  libretto  was  of  little  account,  but 
music  is  the  universal  language  which  every- 
body understands.  I enjoyed  my  surroundings, 
the  refreshments  and  the  crowd.  The  men  were 
indifferent  looking,  but  the  women  were  richly 
jeweled  and  poorly  dressed;  that  is,  half  dressed. 
There  was  plenty  of  good  form  and  complexion, 
but  apart  from  eyes,  dark  and  lustrous,  I saw  no 


1 86 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Italian  beauties.  Surely  “the  play’s  the  thing” 
in  Italy  and  many  seem  to  attend  it  more  fre- 
quently and  contribute  more  liberally  to  its  sup- 
port than  to  the  churches. 

Near  the  pyramid  of  Cestius,  that  marble 
structure  one  hundred  and  fourteen  feet 
high  and  older  than  the  Christian  era,  I 
found  the  Protestant  cemetery.  Here  is 
the  grave  of  Keats,  “whose  name  was  writ  in 
water,”  and  yet  like  that  element  his  fame  sur- 
rounds the  world;  the  grave  of  Shelley  with  its 
“Cor  cordium,”  whose  song  like  his  skylark 
sings  high  toward  heaven.  Sweet  and  suggest- 
ive resting  place,  and  why  should  not  Nature 
be  her  sweetest  to  the  poets  who  translated  Na- 
ture to  humble,  prosaic  hearts?  However,  if 
you  are  not  a poet,  there  is  Capuchin  convent, 
a human  bone-yard  whose  foundations  and  deco- 
rations furnish  endless,  “Alas  poor  Yoricks”  for 
soliloquizing  Hamlets;  or  the  Catacombs  which 
honeycomb  the  city  with  miles  of  graves,  paths, 
chapels,  shelves,  and  symbols  of  Christians  who 
lived  here  by  day,  visited  by  night  and  were 
burned  between  times. 

The  Coliseum  is  only  another  name  for  a 
cemetery.  It  gives  you  the  first,  firmest  idea  of 
Rome’s  cruel  power.  It  is  a tragedy  in  stone, 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


187 


and,  thank  God,  will  never  rise  again  to  disgrace 
humanity. 

In  Rome  you  are  robbed  with  no  redress; 
dirty  beggars,  begotten  of  centuries  of  temporal 
and  clerical  oppression  villainously  smile  and 
jabber  with  a smelter-like  breath  whose  gas  and 
vapor  deaden  everything  around.  Is  it  not 
strange  that  Jerusalem  and  Rome,  the  two  most 
Christian  cities  at  one  time,  are  today  in  some 
respects  the  most  degraded? 

One  afternoon  Prof.  P , my  musical  friend, 

told  me  that  Guiseppe  Resta  was  to  give  a piano 
recital  at  the  Constanzi.  I said,  “Prof.,  let’s  go. 
I’ll  wear  glasses  and  look  literary,  and  your  long 
hair  will  stamp  you  as  musical.  We  will  appear 
as  ‘Americano  critique  le  papier.”  So  we  intro- 
duced ourselves  to  the  doorkeeper  who  listened 
to  our  lingo  and  looked  at  us  as  if  we  were  a 
pair  of  harmless  lunatics.  He  pointed  us  in  the 
direction  of  a big  female  who  guided  us  to  the 
manager  in  chief.  He  put  out  his  hand  to  me, 
I gripped  it  and  said,  “Bon  jour,  Americano 
critique  le  papier,”  and  produced  my  pencil  and 
pad.  Visions  of  laudatory  press  notices  must 
have  flashed  over  his  mind,  for  he  said  brokenly, 
“Ferry  well.”  I first  thought  he  meant,  “Fare 
thee  well,”  until  he  personally  conducted  us  up 
the  middle  aisle  to  two  of  the  best  seats  in  the 


1 88  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

house.  “Merci,”  I said.  “Mercy/’  I felt.  I 
kept  my  glasses  on  and  the  professor  his  hair. 
We  listened  to  the  music,  looked  very  wise  and 
made  a few  musical  notes.  Resta’s  playing  was 
full  of  fire  and  feeling  and  showed  good  tech- 
nique. I was  glad  to  be  introduced  to  him  at 
the  close  of  the  concert  and  say,  “bravo.” 

We  took  in  the  Saturday  show  of  the  Corso, 
that  Broadway,  State  street  and  Nicollet  avenue 
combined,  with  more  of  startling  contrast  in  the 
rank  and  file  of  the  people,  cafes,  stores  and 
sights.  It  was  a relief  to  find  an  English  Episco- 
pal church  near  by  in  which  we  could  rest. 

We  met  some  Neapolitan  boys  and  girls  who 
thought  we  were  artists  and  followed  and  begged 
us  to  paint  their  pictures.  They  were  pretty  and 
picturesque,  brown  faced,  black  hair  and  eyes 
and  gaudy  dress.  I told  them  we  were  not  ar- 
tists, but  “Americano  critiquos”  and  they  finally 
left  us  expecting  we  would  call  for  them  Mon- 
day. Sure  “the  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the 
grave.”  We  spent  an  hour  in  finding  Augustus 
Caesar’s  tomb,  inquired  many  times  and  at  last 
found  our  way  into  an  old  rubbish  heap  of  an 
amphitheater.  It  was  growing  dark  and  I want- 
ed a light  and  thought  of  a Roman  candle,  but 
feared  if  I used  it  in  this  dangerous  place,  I 
might  be  like  the  poor  Irishman,  who  “Lit  one 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


89 


of  them  Roman  candles  to  see  what  candles  them 
Romans  used”  and  was  later  found  by  his  faith- 
ful Bridget  hunting  under  the  table  for  his  eye. 

IBs  easy  to  preach  and  practice,  “When  you 
are  in  Rome  do  as  the  Romans  do,”  and  so  after 
dinner  we  took  a cab  and  went  to  “Marco  Vis- 
conti,” at  the  Theater  Nazionale.  I wanted  more 
music  and  got  it.  It  was  late,  I was  tired,  and 
started  to  leave  the  house,  when  my  friend  said: 
“Wait  till  you  see  the  ballet.”  I wondered 
what  he  meant.  I said:  “I  will  wait  for  just  a 
few  minutes,  it’s  11  o’clock  now,  and  I want  to 
be  asleep  by  12.”  The  ballet  came.  The  longer 
I waited  the  more  I wondered.  When  the  cur- 
tain was  rung  down  I looked  at  my  watch;  it 
was  1 o’clock  Sunday  morning. 

We  spent  the  morning  looking  at  Raphael’s 
frescoes,  which  though  dimmed  with  years, 
preach  a literal  gospel  of  the  higher  life  to  all 
who  will  see  and  understand.  Later  saw  Guido’s 
“Aurora”  above  reflected  in  the  Rospiglioso 
mirror  beneath.  This  was  a morning,  moving 
picture  which  led  one  to  think  it  was  time  to 
get  up  and  take  a drive,  which  we  did. 

The  Capitol  hill  at  Rome  is  a scene  of  shadow 
and  sun  light.  Its  temple  crowned  top;  Tar- 
peian  Rock  for  traitors  and  Square  with  historic 
bronze  statue  of  Marcus  Aurelius.  In  the  Capi- 


igo  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

tol  Museum  is  the  famous  Hall  of  Emperors,  a 
bust  gallery  of  notorious  Roman  profligates.  I 
am  not  surprised  that  sight  of  them  and  mem- 
ory of  what  they  were  led  Gibbon  to  write,  “The 
Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire.” 

Progress  is  slow  but  sure.  Victor  Emmanuel 
said,  “Let  there  be  light.”  He  had  to  do  with  a 
people  who  were  lazy,  lying  and  lascivious;  all 
they  seemed  to  want  was  a place  to  sleep,  plenty 
of  macaroni  and  “damned  be  he  that  first  cries, 
‘Hold,  enough.’  ” The  new  government  took  for 
its  motto,  “God  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves,” and  He  did.  The  ideal  has  not  been 
reached,  but  railroads,  good  harbors,  new  build- 
ings, manufactures,  foreign  and  domestic  com- 
merce, schools,  churches  and  freedom  of  the 
press  show  material,  mental  and  moral  advance 
which  urge  toward  greater  deeds  and  higher 
manhood. 

I made  arrangements  to  see  the  Pope,  but  had 
an  illustration  of  the  pathetic  lines,  “You 
can’t  most  always  always  sometimes  tell;” 
smallpox  prevented.  So  far  we  had  had 
a fine  cruise  through  Egypt,  Palestine, 
Asia,  and  Greece;  not  a ripple  had  ruffled 
the  sea  of  our  happiness,  except  sea-sickness. 
But  death  is  always  a possibility . The  disease 
contracted  at  Alexandria  broke  out  just  before 


THE  ETERNAL  CITY. 


191 


we  reached  Naples.  We  providentially  managed 
to  get  a clean  bill  of  healtn  and  our  baggage,  but 
at  Rome  some  of  our  number  were  taken  sud- 
denly, seriously,  and  fatally  ill.  If  we  had  not 
taken  legbail,  the  board  of  health  would  have 
quarantined  our  hotels  and  made  me  like  Paul, 
“Prisoner  at  Rome.”  Mr.  Frank  C.  Clark,  the 
conductor  of  our  New  England  party,  did  all  he 
agreed  to  and  much  more ; he  was  always  a gen- 
tleman, genial  and  generous,  honest  and  helpful 
to  his  party  whom  he  treated  as  members  of  his 
family.  I shall  be  glad  to  go  with  him 
“Around  the  World  in  Eighty  Days,”  or  a 
longer  time. 

With  a meaning  that  the  poet  Rogers  never 
intended,  I felt,  “I  am  in  Rome,  a thousand 
thoughts  rush  on  my  mind,  a thousand  images, 
and  I spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a race.”  I called 
a cab,  gave  the  driver  a tip,  threw  myself  and 
luggage  on  the  seat  and  was  driven  to  the  depot 
with  race  course  speed.  The  train  was  a mass 
of  frightened  passengers  and  disordered  bag- 
gage. Soon  the  engine  pulled  out  of  the 
City  of  the  Caesars.  Fruit  cake,  and 

Chianti  were  next  in  order.  I was  tired. 
I looked  up,  my  friend’s  head  was  thrown 
back,  his  mouth  looked  like  an  old- 


192 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


fashioned  carpet  bag  and  from  its  depths  came 
out  a snore,  “Vale,  et  Vale.” 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE. 

I went  to  Hotel  de  Italy,  the  former  palace  of 
Prince  Murat  and  Queen  Caroline.  By  mistake 
I was  assigned  a kind  of  jail  room,  No.  75,  below 
the  street  of  Lung  Arno.  I existed  in  “durance 
vile”  till  early  next  morning,  when  I rang  the  con- 
cierge and  was  received  by  a maid  and  boy  who 
took  me  to  lucky  No.  13,  carrying  my  grip, 
pants,  umbrella  and  vest  in  a kind  of  proces- 
sion before  me.  Opposite  my  window  I saw  the 
house  of  Amerigo  Vespucci;  he  was  gone,  but 
not  the  girl  in  the  window  who  spent  her  time  in 
sweet  nothingness  till  the  band  came  by,  fol- 
lowed by  Italian  soldiers;  she  waved  her  handker 
chief,  I waved  my  flag;  the  captain  recognized 
me  and  the  boys  her,  smiled  and  marched  on. 

I had  the  Continental  breakfast,  not  worth  a 
continental,  of  coffee,  bread  and  honey.  Food 
in  Italy,  as  a rule,  is  small  in  quantity  and  poor 
in  quality,  disguised  by  high  seasoning  and 
made  as  indigestible  as  palatable.  The  Italians 
are  too  lazy  to  eat  much.  They  have  to  take 


FEEDING  PIGEONS  AT  ST.  MARK’S 


IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE. 


193 


something  or  die,  but  eating  seems  a matter  of 
necessity  and  not  of  choice.  Fruit  is  their  staff 
of  life,  and  is  to  the  Italian  what  potatoes  are  to 
Ireland.  The  natives  serve  you  with  grapes, 
peaches,  figs,  quinces,  pomegranates  and  a con- 
fectionery paste,  all  very  good  and  abundant, 
and  which,  like  everything  else  except  frames, 
paintings  and  statues,  goes  by  weight. 

Drink  is  the  main  thing;  more  is  spent  for 
wine  than  bread  or  fruit,  but  it  is  a harmless 
wash,  and  non-alcoholic,  for  they  use  it  soon  after 
it  is  made,  and  it  is  innocent  compared  with  bev- 
erages found  elsewhere  on  the  continent  or  in 
America. 

I drove  around  the  city  and  conquered  and 
complimented  my  driver  by  saying,  '‘Bunco 
Italia.”  He  was  as  noisy  as  his  brothers.  A sound 
like  Bedlam  broke  loose  came  down  the  narrow 
streets  of  the  city  like  low  C through  a tuba. 
Boys’  cries  of  Gazettes,  cigarettes  and  matches; 
men’s  cries  of  brooms,  rooster-coombs,  chestnut 
pudding,  squashes,  baked  pears,  figs,  grapes  and 
rolled  squash  seeds,  assaulted  our  ears  until  we 
implored  high  heaven  for  temporary  deafness. 
Even  this  was  denied  us  by  a little  boy  who  got 
his  English  mixed  and  came  to  me  saying, 
“Good-Bye,”  and  left  me,  adding,  “How  do  you 
do.”  Flower  girls  were  in  abundance  selling 


194 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


their  wares,  in  all  the  variety  of  orange,  lemon 
and  laurel.  You  might  as  well  be  without  your 
coat  as  without  a flower;  the  flower  girl  will  stop 
you  on  the  street  or  come  to  you  in  the  cafe  and 
put  a rose  bud  in  your  button-hole,  unless  you 
resist  her. 

You  may  pay  then  or  later  in  the  season  when 
for  all  your  decoration  she  comes  in  an  irresis- 
tible way  and  you  settle  for  value  received.  There 
are  some  beautiful  women  here,  but,  as  a rule, 
they  are  hideous  when  not  homely.  I learned 
that  marriage  was  based  on  dowry  and  not  on 
divine  standards.  Their  proverb  says:  “Mar- 

riage is  the  tomb  of  love;”  Byron  said:  “They 
marry  for  their  parents  and  they  love  for  them- 
selves.” Society,  too,  largely  consists  of  smoke, 
drink,  gambling  and  free  love;  a paradise  for 
people  who  like  that  kind  of  thing. 

The  markets  of  Florence  are  as  curious  as 
their  mosaics;  long  lanes  lined  with  boxes,  bas- 
kets and  barrels,  filled  with  flowers,  fish,  fowl, 
flesh  and  fruit  and  as  many  kinds  of  curious  peo- 
ple to  sell  them.  Near  by  are  stands  where  the 
hungry  may  buy  a fried  cake  of  coagulated  blood 
or  a roasted  fat  cat  with  some  favorite  fritters 
soaked  in  grease.  I w?as  hungry,  but  insisted  on 
vegetarian  diet.  No,  thank  you,  I said,  give  me 
liberty,  limburger  or  death.  While  ignorant  and 


IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE. 


195 


helpless  and  in  need  of  a wise  companion,  I was 
approached  by  a man  who  had  little  owls  for  sale. 
They  may  be  had  for  a song,  but  I preferred  my 
own  thoughts  for  a pet. 

One  morning  I overslept  and  my  party  left 
without  me.  I started  to  overtake  them,  walked 
in  a circle  for  half  an  hour  and  came  out  by  the 
bridge  two  squares  from  my  hotel. 

I was  in  just  the  frame  of  mind  to  go  to 
church,  and  so  went  where  I could  learn  the 
stony  record  of  Florence’s  birth,  life,  and  death. 
San  Lorenzo,  with  the  tombs  of  the  de  Medici, 
and  Angelo’s  colossal  figures  of  Day,  Night, 
Dawn  and  Twilight;  San  Marco,  with  the  pulpit 
of  Savonarola,  where  he  thundered  of  righteous- 
ness and  judgment:  Duomo,  that  marble  mosaic 
with  its  daring  dome  by  Brunelleschi.  Campa- 
nile, that  beautiful  bell  tower  which  Giotto  hung 
three  hundred  feet  in  the  air,  and  many  others. 

I went  to  a barber  shop,  where  the  butcher 
held  the  razor  upside  down  and  carved  me  after 
he  had  pared  my  fingernails.  These  bar- 
bers bleed  you  professionally  and  ignorantly 
killed  Cavour.  Dentists  draw  your  teeth  and 
physicians  prescribe  for  what  may  be  left  if  you 
are  not  already  dead.  One  expects  to  see  much 
sickness  where  water  is  regarded  as  “great  med- 
icine” and  only  used  externally  or  internally  as 


196  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

a last  resort.  When  I asked  my  bloody  bene- 
factor how  much  I owed,  he  replied  “Niente, 
signore”  (nothing,  sir,)  I was  embarrassed, 
wanted  to  be  generous,  hesitated,  fumbled  my 
money  and  ended  by  giving  five  times  the  value 
received,  the  rascal  grinning  and  bowing  thanks 
all  the  time. 

But  there  are  better.  Florentines  are  proud 
of  their  citizenship  as  Americans,  Greeks  and 
Romans  are  of  theirs,  and  why  not?  Their  Dante 
gave  glimpses  of  heaven  and  hell;  Boccaccio  of 
love  and  lust;  Machiavelli  of  plotting  politics; 
Petrarch  of  his  loved  Laura;  Galileo  of  starry 
sky ; Savonarola  of  piety  and  patriotism ; Ameri- 
go Vespucci  gave  a name  to  our  country;  Giot- 
to planted  the  lily  of  the  Campanile;  Brunel- 
leschi spanned  the  dome  of  the  Duomo;  Ghiberti 
swung  his  bronze  gates;  Angelo  carved  the  mov- 
ing marble,  and  Bartolommeo,  Delsarto  and  Da 
Vinci  painted  the  canvas  never  to  fade  from 
memory’s  gallery. 

I frequently  worshipped  in  the  sanctuary  of 
Florence  sculpture,  of  which  Thorwaldsen  says, 
“Clay  is  birth,  plaster  is  death,  marble  is  the 
resurrection.”  Here  is  the  Loggia  of  the  Lan- 
cers, an  arcade  of  arches  filled  with  the  master 
art  of  “Rape  of  the  Sabines,”  “Perseus”  and 
“Polyexina  and  Achilles.”  Along  thorough- 


IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE. 


10. 1 


fares  and  porticoes  are  statues  of  her  leading 
men — while  towering  as  Saul  above  his  breth- 
ren, is  Angelo’s  statue  of  David,  cut  from  the 
eighteen-foot  block  of  rejected  marble.  Where 
art  is  not  in  the  stone  itself,  you  find  it  on  the 
facades  of  buildings  where  gods  and  men  are 
frescoed  in  amazing  outline  and  color. 

When  it  comes  to  painting  Florence  is  heir 
of  art’s  history.  Her  galleries  are  in  places  which 
were  made  possible  by  the  wealth  and  power  of 
the  Medici.  A study  of  the  tourists  here  was 
as  interesting  to  me  as  the  pictures  on  exhibi- 
tion; the  absurd  criticisms  of  some,  the  pretend- 
ed rapture  of  others,  the  glance  of  the  blase  trav- 
eler and  the  unfeigned  horror  of  pater  and  mater 
familias  as  their  offspring  viewed  the  nude  mar- 
ble or  the  blushing  canvas.  The  Ufizzi  gallery 
is  a shrine  of  painting  and  sculpture,  of  gems, 
vases  and  bronzes  from  ancient  masters.  The 
halls  are  filled  with  busts  of  emperors  and  em- 
presses, original  drawings  from  De  Vinci  and 
Raphael,  bust  of  Alexander  dying,  and  group 
of  Niobe  and  her  fated  children.  The  Tribune 
with  its  mosaic  pavement,  mother  of  pearl  dome, 
gilded  walls  and  ceiling  is  the  gem  of  the  whole 
collection.  Within  its  magic  circle,  solitary  and 
unique  stand  the  master  pieces  of  Raphael,  Cor- 
reggio, Del  Sarto  and  Angelo;  the  Wrestlers, 


198 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Dancing  Fawn,  Appollino  and  Scythian  whet- 
ting a knife.  Titian’s  Venus,  with  shameless  atti- 
tude and  coloring,  stares  you  out  of  countenance, 
while  the  Venus  de  Medici  welcomes  you  with  a 
face  and  form  at  once  the  delight  and  despair  of 
modern  artists. 

There  is  an  enclosed  walk  between  galleries  of 
art  over  the  Arno  river,  leading  to  the  Pitti  gal- 
lery. This  palace  was  the  former  residence  of 
the  king  and  queen  when  Florence  was  the  cap- 
ital of  united  Italy.  It  is  a noble  building,  filled 
with  the  luxury  of  art,  statues  and  paintings, 
mosaics,  precious  stones  in  greatest  profusion. 
One  can  never  forget  the  maternal  Madonna 
look  of  Raphael’s  masterpiece.  I am  not  sur- 
prised that  when  the  old  prince  who  lived  here 
was  told  by  his  priest  of  a glorious  heaven,  he 
replied,  “I  would  be  satisfied  if  I could  remain 
in  the  Pitti/’  Yet  with  all  this  art,  there  are 
some  Italians  who  have  never  seen  it,  don’t  care 
to  visit  it,  and  if  they  did  would  probably  appre- 
ciate it  about  as  much  as  the  sheep  did  the  open 
heavens  over  Bethlehem’s  plain. 

Much  of  the  history  of  Florence  proves  that 
art  is  not  necessarily  religious  and  that  cities 
may  be  white  with  classic  marbles  and  dark  with 
cursed  meanness.  I visited  mediaeval  palaces, 
rocky  and  red  with  tragedy;  Polozzia  Vecchio, 


IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE.  199 

for  six  hundred  years  the  senate  of  the  republic 
and  official  residence  of  the  Medici,  contained 
the  tower  where  the  sainted  Savonarola  was  tor- 
tured for  forty  days.  The  volume  of  Guelph  and 
Ghibeline  history  of  Florence  is  written  in  blood, 
punctuated  with  tears  and  held  together  with  the 
strings  of  broken  hearts. 

We  walked  by  peddlers  with  hands  and  arms 
full  of  different  dogs  which  they  were  trying  to 
sell,  but  I found  they  all  had  the  same  kind  of 
fleas.  We  passed  by  windows  filled  with  ques- 
tionable pictures  which  the  Italian  St.  Anthony 
Comstock  had  evidently  overlooked;  saw  a mu- 
sical family  who  played,  sung  and  danced  on  the 
street  for  the  coppers  we  threw  them,  but  were 
driven  off  by  the  police  to  make  way  for  the  rich 
who  rode  by  with  two  drivers  and  a poodle  dog 
between  them ; and  attended  a grand  concerto 
where  Olga  von  Turk  Rohn  gave  a classic  and 
artistic  program.  She  was  a musical  gem  in  black 
velvety  dress,  beads,  silver,  diamonds  and  tres  em- 
bonpoint. Coming  out  I bought  a little  looking 
glass  which  drew  a big  crowd  before  I could 
make  the  proper  change.  Something  was  lack- 
ing. I offered  an  umbrella  check,  but  the  man 
wanted  my  umbrella,  too,  and  so  I compromised 
on  a pack  of  cigarettes  which  a friend  had  given 
me  to  give  away. 


200 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


We  attended  a theater  party  that  night,  a two 
box  affair,  but  by  mistake  entered  the  wrong  box 
and  the  soldiers  escorted  us  up  stairs.  It  was  a 
frosty  time  and  I hid  behind  the  curtain,  Polo- 
nius  like,  with  hat  and  coat  on  to  keep  warm. 
Massenet’s  music  was  fantastic  and  with  little 
melody.  The  play  dragged  on  through  the  old 
story  of  misplaced  love.  Finally  the  hero  killed 
himself  three  hours  too  late;  a thing  he  should 
have  thought  of  in  the  first  act.  It  was  worth 
our  life  to  get  a cab  to  get  back  to  the  hotel.  An 
urchin  hailed  one  for  me  and  when  it  came  a 
young  hoodlum  said  it  was  for  another,  and  it 
resulted  in  a whip  fight.  The  matter  was  finally 
adjusted  and  we  got  the  carriage  and  rested  in 
peace  until  the  driver  opened  the  door  in  front 
of  the  hotel  and  demanded  three  times  the  usual 
price  and  would  probably  have  knocked  us  down 
and  robbed  us  if  the  hotel  concierge,  having 
heard  our  altercation,  had  not  come  out  and 
made  him  do  the  right  thing. 

I crossed  Ponte  Vecchio,  the  oldest  and  odd- 
est of  the  six  bridges  over  the  Arno.  A double 
decker,  with  art  galleries  above,  jewelry  shops 
beneath,  filled  with  mosaics  of  all  that  art  and 
nature  can  represent,  and  where  ’mid  all  the  pre- 
cious stones  the  turquoise  is  the  prevailing  one. 
This  stone  is  beautiful  and  inexpensive  here,  and 


IN  WONDERFUL  FLORENCE. 


201 


I exchanged  a few  American  rocks  for  scarf  pins 
and  serpent  headed  ornaments.  I stood  on  this 
bridge  at  midnight,  above  me  the  silver  moon, 
beneath  me  the  yellow  Arno  small  then,  but 
angry  in  freshet  times,  and  recalled  George  Eli- 
ot’s “Romola”  and  how  Tito  leaped  here  from 
the  mob  into  death. 

Gardens,  walks  and  drives  abound ; Boboli 
garden,  back  of  the  Pitti  with  its  trees,  flowers, 
ponds  and  statuary  inviting  to  rest;  Villa  Tor- 
rigini  welcoming  the  wit,  the  wealth  and  wick- 
edness of  the  city;  Lung  Arno,  what  the  Seine  is 
to  Paris,  leading  to  the  Cascine;  the  Cascine, 
the  Italian  Bois  de  Boulogne,  filled  with  military 
music,  fashion  and  folly  of  those  who  eat,  drink 
and  are  merry,  careless  of  when  and  how  they 
die.  Surrounding  hills  are  famous  for  olives  and 
flowers  and  the  homes  of  great  men  and  women 
— Hawthorne,  Browning,  Salvini  and  others. 
Galileo’s  villa,  where  he  studied  and  communed 
with  Milton ; masters  of  science  and  poetry,  both 
to  be  later  physically  eclipsed,  but  each  possess- 
ing an  inner  light  which  no  blindness  could 
darken;  Tuscan’s  hills;  Castle  of  Vincigliata; 
monastry  of  La  Certosa;  Height  of  San  Miniato, 
with  its  famous  church,  splendid  drive  and 
spacious  square,  in  the  center  of  which  is  the  fine 
bronze  copy  of  David;  while  across  the  valley 


202 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


loom  the  heights  of  Fiesole  with  their  white- 
walled  villas  mantled  with  vine  and  olive  on  the 
white  background  of  the  snowy  Apennines  in 
the  far  distance. 

“Vines,  flowers,  air,  skies  that  fling  such  wild 
enchantment  o’er  Boccaccio’s  tales  of  Florence 
and  the  Arno,”  make  a never-to-be-forgotten 
frame  of  my  pictured  visit.  In  this  spirit  I read 
Robert  Browning’s  “Andrea  del  Sarto”  by  the 
big,  historic  table  in  the  bridal  chamber  of 
Queen  Caroline.  Then  I took  a cab  and  visited 
the  house  where  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 
wrote  her  immortal  “Casa  Guidi  ‘Windows.” 
Later  I visited  the  Protestant  cemetery  where 
she  lies  buried.  Dead  she  still  speaks.  Her 
worth  shines  like  a star  at  night.  More  endur- 
ing and  beautiful  than  the  flower-strewn  marble 
sarcophagus  which  rises  above  her  body  is  the 
memory  of  a woman  who  was  called  “Shake- 
speare’s daughter,”  who  “made  her  poetry  the 
golden  ring  between  Italy  and  England.” 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 

“Parlate  Italiano?” — no,  but  there  were  three 
occasions  on  which  I wish  I did  and  they  were 


PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 


203 


Pisa,  Genoa  and  Milan.  A beautiful  ride  of  three 
hours  through  fertile  valleys  with  their  pretty 
towns,  picturesque  mountains  and  hills  with 
nestling  cities  and  castles  and  we  came  to  Pisa, 
the  once  powerful,  now  puny  in  respect  to  ships, 
commerce  and  armies. 

We  were  driven  at  once  to  the  Leaning  Tow- 
er, one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  high  and  thir- 
teen feet  off  the  perpendicular;  it  is  seven 
hundred  years  old  and  has  always  been  on 
this  jag,  no  one  knowing  whether  it  settled  or 
was  built  that  way.  Mrs.  W.  was  too  tired  to 
climb  the  eight  stories,  but  her  daughter,  Miss 
W.,  was  very  anxious  to.  The  mother  looked  to 
me  and  said: 

“Doctor,  you  take  her  and  act  towards  her  as 
your  own  daughter.” 

We  climbed  up  the  foot-worn  stairs,  admired 
the  granite  and  marble  fluted  columns,  and  saw 
a most  magnificent  view  of  river,  valley,  moun- 
tain and  plain.  I was  venturesome  and  walked 
on  the  outside  of  the  iron  railing,  saw  the  big 
chime  of  bells,  leaned  over  the  lower  side  of  the 
tower,  and  wondered  where  I would  go  if  I fell 
off. 

Descending,  we  were  met  by  the  party  and 
visited  the  old  cathedral  which  stands  like  an 
obelisk,  a commentary  on  the  departed  grand- 


204 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


eur  of  the  city.  The  thing  which  struck  me  most 
was  the  pendulum  lamp  which  swung  into  Gali- 
leo’s mind  a world  of  science  and  mechanical 
force  as  he  compared  its  vibrations  with  the  pul- 
sations of  his  own  heart. 

The  baptistery  is  a rich  rotunda  with  a marble 
pulpit,  a mosaic  baptistery  and  something  more 
marvelous  than  both,  the  wonderful  echo.  I 
whistled  and  it  sounded  like  a calliope,  sang  and 
had  a cathedral  organ,  slammed  the  seat  and  it 
sounded  like  a cannon. 

The  Campo  Santo  invited  us  with  its  sar- 
cophagi, and  frescoes  of  biblical  scenes,  vivid  in 
conception  and  rude  in  execution.  Here  is  a lit- 
eral “God’s  lap  of  earth,”  in  the  fifty-three  ship- 
loads of  sacred  soil  which  the  crusaders  brought 
from  Jerusalem  for  their  burial.  On  our  way  to 
the  depot  we  paused  at  church  Stefano.  I bribed 
the  sexton  and  climbed  up  a dirty  garret-like 
place  to  the  organ  loft.  The  instrument  was  an 
old,  odd  affair;  the  pedals  and  stops  looked  like 
cross  ties  and  bars  of  yellow  soap,  but  the  tone 
was  smooth  and  sweet.  To  the  “Ave  Marias” 
beneath  I responded  with : “O  Promise  Me,”  and 
the  effect  of  the  “linked  sweetness  long  drawn 
out”  through  the  aisles  was  most  astonishing. 
I took  some  photos,  bought  some  marble  fruit, 
cherries,  apples  and  pears,  natural  and  life-size; 


PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 


205 


picked  up  a miniature  in  marble  of  the  leaning 
tower ; got  a bottle  of  mineral  water  at  half  price, 
because,  as  the  salesman  said,  “He  don’t  make 
so  much  noise,”  and  entered  the  car  with  my 
party  plus  two  priests  and  eight  foreigners. 
Traveling  makes  one  social,  although  I heard  an 
English  dude  say : “I  hope  they  won’t  think 

I’m  an  American.”  No  fear. 

Genoa  is  a substantial  city  with  narrow,  cork- 
screw streets  and  high  houses  looking  down  on 
you  as  the  crests  of  the  Royal  Gorge.  This  is 
the  birthplace  of  Columbus.  I saw  his  house,  an 
autograph  letter  in  the  museum,  and  stood  in  the 
park  from  which  he  looked  beyond  the  white- 
caps  far  out  at  sea  for  a land  of  commerce,  civ- 
ilization and  Christianity.  There  are  many  pal- 
aces of  pink  marble  with  historic  frescoes  and 
salons  filled  with  mosaics  and  art,  masterpieces 
of  painting  and  statuary.  As  usual,  we  found 
“good”  churches;  that  on  the  Anuziato,  with  a 
ceiling  of  marble;  the  cathedral  of  San  Lorenzo 
with  its  famous  pictures,  frescoes,  pillars,  organ, 
and  chapel  containing  the  marble  chest  in  which 
repose  the  bones  of  St.  John  the  Baptist,  the 
chain  which  bound  him  as  prisoner,  and  a dupli- 
cate of  holy  relics  which  I found  all  through 
Italy.  Famine  breeding  Friar  Tucks  abound 
and  the  poor  people  much  more  so.  Around  the 


20 6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


city  I met  deformed  men,  bearded  women  and 
some  pretty  girls,  blonde  and  brown  types,  eyes 
blue  and  black.  All  of  them  were  veiled  in  a 
misty  fabric  through  which  they  dreamily  gazed, 
as  they  cheerfully  chatted.  The  park,  with  its 
music,  ices  and  social  flirtations,  is  the  place 
of  meeting,  the  only  drawback  being  the  vile  to- 
bacco smoke,  which  here,  as  elsewhere  in  Italy, 
resembles  boiled  cabbage  or  a burning  barn. 

The  cemetery  is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world, 
with  its  marble  corridor  around  a square  of 
ground.  The  floor  consists  of  marble  slabs  bear- 
ing inscriptions  of  the  dead.  On  either  side  are 
tombs  and  figures  in  the  fairest  and  most  artistic 
form  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  the  dead.  It 
is  a hall  of  statuary  or  temple  of  fame  well  worth 
a visit. 

From  being  a world  conqueror,  Genoa  has 
settled  down  into  the  manufacture  of  velvets  and 
fancy  filigree  silverware.  The  gallery  of  paint- 
ings had  some  fine  works,  but  their  impression 
was  marred  by  the  guide,  who  had  lingual  diffi- 
culties of  his  own.  He  referred  to  a great  man, 
saying:  “He  die  of  disease  of  littlepox,”  and  strik- 
ing an  attitude  before  a famous  picture  he  said : 
“Dis  picture  paint  tree  hundred  years  ago  by 
hisself,  Paul  Very  Uneasy  (Paul  Veronese),  and 
nefer  been  touch-ed  since/’ 


PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 


207 


He  pressed  a spring  and  a secret  door  flew 
open  in  the  wall  which  revealed  a glass  case 
which  contained  the  great  Paginini’s  violins. 
What  a mad  genius  he  was.  He  no  more  played 
like  other  people  than  the  violin  is  like  other  in- 
struments. 

The  last  thing  I saw  in  Genoa  from  my  car 
window  was  an  emigrant  woman  carrying  a 
naked  baby  under  her  arm,  and  near  by  a fat 
student,  a lean  consumptive,  three  swarthy  men 
and  one  other,  who  said : “Addios,”  to  his  three 
male  friends,  who  each  in  turn  kissed  him  on 
both  cheeks. 

Milan  is  well  called  the  Paris  of  Italy.  After 
a dusty  ride  I was  driven  to  the  hotel  and  or- 
dered a bath.  The  maid  gave  me  everything  but 
soap,  and  after  much  effort  I secured  some  about 
as  big  and  thick  as  a postage  stamp.  It  was  a 
good  sample,  but  she  practiced  homoeopathy  in 
this  as  some  other  things,  and  I could  get  no 
more.  I took  it  good  naturedly  and  she,  too, 
for  you  must  laugh  to  grow  fat  in  Italy.  At  any 

rate,  this  was  the  philosophy  of  Miss  in 

a cold  room,  whom  I heard  say:  “I'll  hug  any- 
thing warm/’  and  she  got  around  the  stove. 

The  climate  of  Italy  is  not  a synonym  for 
heaven.  Wind,  rain  and  smoky  chimneys  make 
you  understand  the  original  of  Dante’s  Inferno. 


208 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Bare-headed  beggars,  shoeless,  shivering,  starv- 
ing children  are  a sad  sight.  They  furnished  me 
with  a soapstone  box  of  a stove  to  warm  my  feet 
by,  and  for  my  hands  I was  given  a “Scaldini” 
life  preserver  shaped  like  a little  earthern  pot. 
It  is  used  in  summer  to  hold  milk  or  omelette 
and  in  winter  is  filled  with  burning  charcoal  or 
hot  ashes. 

It  was  Palm  Sunday  and  we  attended  the  ca- 
thedral. Curious  cross  decorations  of  yellow  palm 
or  straw,  placed  on  olive  branches  were  carried 
in  procession,  through  the  aisles  of  the  church ; 
the  organ,  censers,  candles,  robed  priests,  anu 
crowd,  the  colored  light  falling  through  high 
windows  over  all,  were  a grand  “amen”  to  Car- 
dinal Ferari’s  blessing,  and  from  our  hearts  there 
came  the  response,  “Hosanna  to  the  Lord 
Christ.” 

Milan  has  some  fine  drives  on  which  are  the 
fourteenth  century  castle,  and  old  Roman  theater 
in  which  races  and  regattas  are  now  held ; La 
Scala  theater  with  its  seven  rows  accommodating 
four  thousand  people ; Arch  of  Peace  built  to  im- 
mortalize glory  and  victory ; St.  Lawrence  col- 
umns with  their  ruins  of  the  Roman  temple 
epoch;  and  the  Arcade  gallery  of  Victor  Em- 
manuel with  its  blocks  of  beautiful  buildings  all 
glass  roofed  and  marble  walked,  under  which 


PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 


209 


are  cafes  with  tables  for  the  many  to  eat  and 
drink. 

Students  of  church  history  love  to  visit  the 
Ambrose  Library  with  its  rare  manuscripts, 
drawings  and  signatures.  All  people  irrespective 
of  creed  and  culture  wend  their  way  to  the  fa- 
mous cathedral  of  Milan.  It  has  been  compared 
to  a forest  of  graceful  needles  or  a marble  poem. 

I climbed  one  hundred  and  eighty-two 
marble  steps  to  the  roof,  and  then  to  the 
top  of  the  minaret.  Beneath  me  were 
spired  steeples,  statuary,  doors,  windows,  corners 
and  crevices  which  Raphael,  Canova,  Angelo  and 
their  pupils  had  filled  with  birds,  beasts,  fruits 
and  flowers  in  living  likeness  and  size.  I de- 
scended and  entered  the  building  to  find  it  in 
keeping  with  the  outside ; wonderful  windows  of 
color,  size  and  scenes,  figured  pavements,  fluted 
columns,  and  all  that  heart  could  wish,  mind  plan 
and  hand  execute.  On  one  side  there  is  a sculp- 
ture by  Phidias  made  in  brown  marble  of  a 
skinned  man  with  his  muscles  arteries,  fiber  and 
frame,  chiselled  in  a way  to  paralyze  you. 

Under  the  grand  altar  is  the  crypt  containing 
the  mummified  remains  of  the  sainted  Bishop 
Borromeo,  lying  in  his  rock  crystal  coffin  covered 
with  a Klondike  of  gold  and  of  gems.  This 
wealth  and  that  which  I saw  in  the  treasury,  was 


210 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


more  than  enough  to  help  all  Italy’s  poor.  There 
is  collected  here  an  unusual  amount  of  thorns ; 
robes,  nails,  bits  of  the  true  cross  and  sacred 
handkerchiefs,  the  bones  of  Judas  and  the  fingers 
of  St.  Paul. 

More  famous  than  the  cathedral  is  Leonardo 
da  Vinci’s  picture  of  the  Last  Supper.  I saw 
what  was  left  of  it  in  the  refectory.  It  had  been 
painted  in  distemper  on  a kitchen  wall  and  the 
smoke,  the  years,  the  stabling  of  Napoleon’s 
horses,  which  tried  to  nibble  the  table  and  kick 
off  the  apostles’  legs,  leave  only  a part  of  its 
original  greatness.  Though  dim  and  disfigured 
it  is  divine.  Men  and  women  were  copying  it, 
and  few  homes  are  without  its  engraving. 

Our  engine  awoke  the  echoes  of  Lombardy 
plains  and  carried  us  to  Como.  Our  boat,  Lecco, 
swan-like,  sailed  through  clear,  cold  water  by 
gorgeous  mountains  of  snow  and  ice  with  sum- 
mits lost  in  clouds,  inviting  villages  and  inter- 
esting peasants.  With  azure  sky  above  us  and 
emerald  green  soil  beneath  us,  we  landed  at  Bel- 
lagio,  the  beautiful.  Tree,  flower,  lake,  hill, 
mountain,  cloud  and  sky  make  a literal  Eden. 
Subtract  sin  from  this  world  and  it  is  beautiful 
enough  for  a new  heaven. 

One  morning  I went  to  the  wharf  and  was  sur- 
rounded by  a crowd  of  people  who  bombarded 


PISA,  GENOA  AND  MILAN. 


21 


me  with  their  wares.  The  narrow,  high-climb- 
ing streets  were  filled  with  shops  full  of  people, 
who  were  there  more  for  business  than  for  pleas- 
ure. I bought  a souvenir  of  their  wooden  shoes 
for  eighteen  centimes.  I took  one,  but  the  wom- 
an ran  after  me,  lifted  her  dress  to  her  ankle  tops, 
showed  her  feet  with  two  shoes,  making  me  un- 
derstand I was  entitled  to  two  wooden  shoes,  for 
that  was  the  number  she  wore.  I took  the  other 
one,  getting  the  shoes  and  view  for  one  price. 
I hurriedly  left  for  Menaggio  by  boat  to  take  the 
train  to  Polezza. 

The  Italian  lakes  seen  to  blend  all  the  beauties 
of  scenery  that  Mendelssohn's  “Midsummer 
Night's  Dream"  does  of  sound.  Mountains,  hills, 
lawns,  gardens,  islands,  terraces,  plains,  orange 
groves,  white  chalets,  towns,  cattle  and  natives 
are  all  mirrored  in  the  clear,  cold  water.  Who 
does  not  feel  with  Milton,  “accuse  not  Nature, 
she  hath  done  her  part.  Do  thou  but  thine." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

VENICE— THE  WHITE  PHANTOMED  CITY. 

“Water,  water  everywhere,"  and  not  a horse 
in  sight,  for  this  is  the  “white  phantomed  city 
whose  untrodden  streets  are  rivers  and  whose 


212 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


pavements  are  the  shifting  shadows  of  palaces 
and  strips  of  sky.”  I stepped  into  a gondola,  a 
canoe-shaped  boat,  black  as  a hearse,  with  prow 
ornamented  with  battle  ax  and  steel  comb,  while 
balanced  on  the  stern,  a gay  gondolier  took  a 
long  bladed  oar,  inserted  it  in  the  curve  of  a 
wooden  pegged  oar-lock  and  with  grace  and  skill 
rowed  me  over  the  crested  waves. 

From  the  depot  we  sailed  through  narrow 
streets,  and  along  the  grand  canal  mid  scenes  of 
beauty,  traffic  and  pleasure;  all  lit  with  hue  of 
blue,  green  and  gold ; by  banks  lined  with  pal- 
aces, columns  and  balconies ; near  houses  full  of 
poetic,  tragic  and  artistic  history,  by  posts  painted 
with  the  colors  of  the  family ; opposite  buildings 
that  rise  from  the  sea  and  seen  by  sunrise  or 
moonlight,  play  a game  of  glory  and  gloom. 

Venice  owes  its  origin  to  people  who  fled  here 
in  500  A.  D.  to  escape  Attila,  that  “scourge  of 
God”  and  man.  The  city  rests  on  hundreds  of 
islands  spanned  by  five  times  as  many  bridges 
and  was  once  the  golden  gate  of  commerce  be- 
tween the  Occident  and  the  orient.  I reached  my 
hotel,  wobbled  off  the  boat,  slipped  on  the  sea- 
wet  step  and  went  to  the  lift  to  be  taken  to  my 
room.  Here,  as  all  through  Europe,  if  you  are 
in  a hurry  you  will  walk  up  and  when  coming 


VENICE. 


213 


clown,  do  the  same  thing.  This  hotel  was  sit- 
uated next  to  Desdemona’s  house. 

Venice  is  a place  of  pleasure.  Palaces  may 
crumble,  arts  fade  and  states  fall,  but  magnifi- 
cence, merriment  and  music  always  abide.  Its 
people  are  musical  or  nothing;  all  hours  of  the 
day  and  night  I was  serenaded ; if  ’’music  be  the 
food  of  love,”  the  Venetians  must  have  been  hun- 
gry, for  with  solo  and  quartet,  harp  and  guitar 
accompaniment,  it  was  “Funicula,  funicula,” 
and  “Marguerita,  I Love  You.” 

St.  *Mark  left  his  mark  on  this  city  as  Napoleon 
did  at  Paris,  Scott  at  Edinburgh  and  Rubens  at 
Antwerp.  He  was  their  patron  saint.  I had  vis- 
ited his  residence  in  Alexandria  where  he  lived, 
died  and  was  buried,  and  where,  according  to  the 
legend,  his  bones  were  covered  over  with  lard, 
smuggled  and  brought  here  for  burial. 

A modern  namesake  of  this  hero,  known  as 
St.  Mark  Twain,  tells  us  that  if  these  bones  are 
ever  carried  away  the  Venetians  believe  that  their 
city  will  vanish  away.  St.  Mark  had  a 
remarkable  winged  lion  which  followed  him  as 
faithfully  as  the  little  lamb  did  Mary.  Another 
column  stands  near,  stolen  from  Egypt  seven 
hundred  years  ago,  surmounted  by  a statue  of 
St.  Theodore. 

The  Doge’s  palace  is  called  by  Mr.  Ruskin 


214 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


“The  central  building  of  the  world.”  For  a 
thousand  years  it  was  the  residence  of  the  doges 
or  rulers  of  Venice.  Its  arcades  of  marble  col- 
umns are  adorned  with  sculpture,  while  twisted 
shafts  of  Byzantine  architecture,  pinnacles  and 
painted  arches  on  the  roof  make  a glorious  view, 
in  sun,  moon  or  electric  light.  I walked  through 
the  colonnades  which  serve  as  a shelter  from  the 
sun  or  rain  and  at  night  form  an  ideal  trysting 
place  for  lovers ; I went  out  from  the  corridor  to 
the  courtyard  with  its  finely  decorated  marble 
walls  and  found  the  two  famous  bronze  well 
curbs.  Then  I climbed  the  marble  giant  stair 
case,  viewed  the  lion  above  it  and  the  statues  of 
Mars  and  Neptune  on  either  side,  between  which 
the  doges  were  inaugurated. 

The  state  apartments  are  superb  with  their 
mosiac  floors,  roof  and  wall  of  masterpieces  set 
in  gold  frames  describing  Venice’s  glory.  Here 
is  the  largest  picture  in  the  world,  seventy  feet 
long  painted  by  Tintoretti  when  he  was  nearly 
seventy  years  of  age,  and  near  by  the  biggest 
globe  made.  I visited  the  council  chamber  where 
the  Ten  exerted  their  fiendish  despotism.  Just 
outside  the  door  is  the  Lion’s  head  with  the  open 
mouth  through  which  the  secret  denunciations 
were  dropped  at  night  for  deeds  without  a name. 
From  this  building  the  Doge  annually  went  out 


VENICE. 


215 


followed  by  a procession  to  the  sound  of  music 
and  entered  his  gondola,  sailed  and  said,  “We 
wed  thee,  O sea,  with  this  ring,  emblem  of  our 
rightful  and  perpetual  dominion,”  and  cast  the 
ring  into  the  water.  Venice  is  said  to  have  pos- 
sessed at  one  time  the  largest  armory  and  dock- 
yards in  the  world ; the  first  bank  of  deposit  in 
Europe  except  Rome;  and  she  printed  the  first 
books  in  Italy  and  sold  them  in  St.  Mark's 
square.  She  issued  the  first  newspaper  known  to 
the  world  and  sold  it  for  a little  coin  known  as 
“Gazetta,”  from  which  we  get  our  newspaper 
word  gazette.  But  those  are  the  days  of  long 
ago. 

Back  of  the  palace  is  a prison  with  which  it  is 
connected  by  the  Bridge  of  Sighs.  I crossed  the 
bridge  went  into  the  dungeons  below  the  water’s 
edge,  groped  in  dark  cellars,  breathed  the  foul,  fet- 
id air,  looked  through  the  gloomy,  grated,  win- 
dows, examined  the  guillotine  grooves  and  thrust 
my  hands  in  the  narrow  openings,  through  which 
the  murdered  bodies  were  shoved  out  to  a boat 
to  be  rowed  out  and  sunk  in  a nameless  spot. 

The  palace  has  been  compared  to  the  brain  of 
Venice ; the  piazza  to  the  heart ; and  St.  Mark’s 
Cathedral  to  the  soul.  Mark  Twain,  however, 
compares  the  cathedral  to  “a  warty  bug  taking  a 
meditative  walk.”  My  guide  directed  me  to  St. 


2l6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Mark’s  church  saying,  “Go  left  side  to  the  right 
and  you  find  it.”  It  looks  like  a Christian  Mos- 
que with  its  domes  and  its  belfries.  Whenever 
the  Venetians  came  back  from  the  East  they 
brought  some  new  Moorish,  Arabic  or  Gothic  art 
ideas  and  combined  them  into  this  structure.  It 
has  been  beautified  by  booty  for  five  hundred 
years,  and  its  facades  are  of  historic  marble  stol- 
en from  Jerusalen,  Constantinople,  Ephesus  and 
Smyrna.  The  interior  is  “grand,  gloomy  and  pe- 
culiar” with  its  wallss  of  marble  and  roofs  of 
precious  mosaics.  The  receptacle  of  St.  Mark’s 
body  is  guarded  by  the  statues  of  the  twelve  apos- 
tles. As  usual  one  notices  the  difference  between 
all  this  splendor  and  the  squalor  of  the  poor  who 
constantly  make  claim  to  your  prayers  and  alms. 
I was  about  to  give  a guide  two  francs  to  see 
some  special  church  relic  when  I saw  a blind 
beggar  led  by  a little  child : I let  the  guide  go 

and  gave  the  money  to  the  man  who  needed  it 
and  where  it  would  do  more  good. 

The  famous  bronze  horses  are  stabled  over  the 
doorway  of  this  cathedral.  All  the  horses  in 
town  are  here,  and  these  four  are  good  travelers. 
They  have  been  to  Rome  and  hitched  to  Nero’s 
golden  chariot ; Constantine  sprinted  them  along 
the  Golden  Horn ; they  were  then  driven  back  to 
Venice  and  rested  for  five  hundred  years  when 


VENICE. 


217 


Napoleon  took  a spin  with  them  to  the  Tuileries 
in  Paris,  after  which  they  were  brought  back  here 
and  have  been  resting  ever  since. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  I had  the  pleasure  of  go- 
ing to  a Scottish  church.  It  was  in  a simple 
building  and  had  an  earnest  service.  The  min- 
ister prayed  for  “the  queen  of  England,  president 
of  America,  the  king  of  Italy,  and  that  England 
and  America  by  word  and  deed  might  set  a good 
example  to  the  world.”  I said  a hearty  amen 
and  included  some  of  the  Italians  in  my  silent 
petition,  for  Italy  more  than  any  other  country 
is  a vast  museum  of  magnificence  and  misery. 
The  contrast  is  startling,  between  lake,  moun- 
tain, painting  and  statuary  on  the  one  hand,  and 
idle  men,  ignorant  women,  dirty  boys,  degraded 
girls  and  superstition  on  the  other. 

St.  Mark’s  square  struck  the  keynote  of  Pa- 
ganini’s “Carnival  of  Venice.”  It  is  square, 
flanked  by  state  offices  and  attractive  shops, 
where  I lost  good  money  in  curios.  Crowds 
promenade,  listen  to  music,  drink  coffee,  eat  sher- 
bet, smoke  cigarettes,  and  stare  at  each  other  in 
most  approved  fashion.  Soldiers,  saints  and 
sinners  elbow  each  other.  In  contrast  are  the 
pigeons  which  flock  here  by  hundreds,  a mascot 
from  the  early  time  of  the  Venetian’s  warfare  at 
Candia.  I fed  them  with  wheat  which  I bought 


2l8 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


on  the  square  and  was  photographed  with  them 
resting  on  my  shoulders  and  encircling  my  head 
like  Venus’s  doves.  It  was  here  too  that  I got 
a snap  shot  of  Don  Carlos,  the  pretender,  his  wife 
and  a big  Dane  dog.  I hunted  them  for  several 
days  and  was  at  last  successful. 

Venice  boasts  of  a number  of  old  magnificent 
churches;  Santa  Maria  Della  Salute,  closed  for 
repairs  by  the  government  whose  fortunes  needed 
repairing;  Santa  Maria  Dei  Frari,  built  on  twelve 
hundred  piles.  This  church  contains  the  body  of 
Canova,  the  heart  of  Titian,  a monument  to  Fos- 
cari,  and  another  to  Peson  who  sits  above  in  state 
on  a sarcophagus  upheld  by  two  great  dragons ; 
two  bronze  skeletons  carry  scrolls  while  four  Nu- 
bians with  their  black  skins  shining  through 
their  marble  dress  uphold  the  structure. 

One  laughing  morning  when  the  zephyrs  were 
blowing  I took  a sail  to  Lido,  the  summer  resort 
and  looked  around  the  island  of  San  Giorgio. 
Later  I passed  the  former  residences  of  Byron 
and  Browning  where  the  salt  sea  weed  now 
clings  to  the  tide-washed  marble;  called  at  the 
art  gallery  and  saw  the  Assumption  by  Titian, 
mellowed  by  age  which  always  makes  even  com- 
mon pictures  great;  visited  the  private  palace  of 
the  mysterious  Count  Papadopoli  with  its  won- 
derful furniture,  art  and  library.  I found  a hair 


VENICE. 


219 


pin  in  the  hall  which  I preserved  as  a suggestive 
souvenir.  Then  on  to  the  Scielo  Racea  to  see 
Tintoretti’s  best  works,  the  Crucifixion,  marvel- 
ous carvings  of  figures  and  books,  and  Joshua 
and  the  Sun  by  Angelo.  The  Rialto  invited  us 
with  its  little  shops  in  the  center  and  is  as  busy 
as  in  Shyiock’s  time.  Here  the  laws  of  the  re- 
public were  proclaimed,  merchants  met  and  citi^ 
zens  congregated. 

One  of  the  most  interesting  industries  in  Ven- 
ice is  glass  making.  The  factories  are  situated 
along  the  canal.  We  saw  Aladdin  make  orna- 
ments, vases  and  chandeliers  indescribably  beau- 
tiful. Venetian  fine  arts  include  lace  making. 
We  visited  the  factories,  saw  the  beautiful  laces 
and  faces  of  the  girl  workers  who  wove  the  web 
at  the  penalty  of  their  eyesight  and  health.  I 
wonder  if  Byron  meant  one  of  these  beauties 
when  he  said,  “She  was  to  me  as  a fairy  city  of 
the  heart.  Of  joy  the  sojourn  and  of  wealth 
the  mart.” 

A shadow  fell  on  this  beautiful  Venetian  pict- 
ure in  the  form  of  a funeral  procession.  The 
body  was  brought  from  the  church,  led  by 
priests,  followed  by  mourners,  and  accompanied 
by  music  to  the  dock.  Then  the  casket  was 
placed  in  a large  gilt  barge  and  many  wonderful 
wreaths  of  flowers  were  laid  upon  it.  It  looked 


220 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


strange  to  see  the  hearse  in  gilt  while  the  pleas- 
ure boats  were  all  in  black. 

The  night  before  I left  the  city  I climbed  the 
bell-tower,  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high. 
Surely  if  men  built  Rome,  the  Gods  built  Venice. 
Above  me  was  the  blue  sky,  around  me  the  soft 
breeze,  below  me  the  floating  city  with  spire 
and  sail  shining  in  the  sunset’s  soft  splendor, 
while  in  the  distance  the  rising  moon  came  with 
her  starry  train  to  silver  the  rippling  deep  and 
marble  halls.  I slowly  came  down — entered  my 
gondola — and  to  the  musical  dip  of  the  oar  I 
floated  and  felt,  I wish  all  I love  were  here. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

GRANITE  MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Lucerne  is  a lovely  little  town  more  superbly 
situated  than  any  city  in  Switzerland.  At  its 
feet  a mirror  lake  of  cloud,  mountain  and  vil- 
lage ; on  one  side  the  rugged  form  of  Mount 
Pilatus  where  the  wicked  Roman  after  many 
years  of  wandering  lived  and  then  remorsefully 
committed  suicide ; on  the  other  side  green  sloped 
Righi  where  the  last  gleam  of  day  lingers  and 
night  lights  her  starry  lamps ; back  of  the  town 
old  walls  and  towers  of  romantic  history;  before 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  221 


you  the  outline  of  snow  covered  mountains.  My 
hotel  was  at  the  edge  of  the  lake  from  which  I 
saw  this  beautiful  panorama  and  in  addition  a 
promenade  on  the  lake  front  where  carriages 
rolled,  lovers  walked,  and  tourists  sat,  or  visited 
curio  stores  filled  with  everything  calculated  to 
filch  money  out  of  their  pockets. 

I had  several  interesting  walks  through  old 
wooden  bridges  which  looked  like  snow  sheds 
over  the  Reuss  river  just  before  it  glides  into  the 
lake.  The  rafters  are  decorated  with  hundreds 
of  old  pictures  by  Swiss  masters  who  knew  all 
the  art  and  history  of  their  time.  From  this 
bridge  you  may  fish  in  the  clear  water  beneath. 
Loafers  and  tourists  engage  in  this  occupation, 
I was  one  of  them  but  with  the  apostle  fished 
and  “caught  nothing.” 

Geneva  for  watches  and  music  boxes,  Lucerne 
for  cuckoo  clocks,  Alpine  crystals,  ivory  and 
wooden  carvings  of  all  the  animals  in  the  coun- 
try, especially  the  wonderful  Lion  of  Lucerne, 
thirty  feet  long,  carved  by  Thorwaldsen  in  the 
living  rock.  Until  we  came  he  had  been  covered 
over  with  tarpaulin  during  the  winter  months  to 
protect  him  from  storm  of  ice  and  rain,  but  that 
day  the  canvass  was  removed  and  there  in  his 
lair  lay  the  dead  lion  with  surroundings  of  grass, 
trees  and  a quiet  little  pond  beneath.  The  figure 


222 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


is  a memorial  of  the  bravery  of  the  Swiss  guards 
who  gave  their  lives  for  Louis  XVI  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  French  revolution.  He  is  mortally 
wounded  by  a spear  whose  broken  handle  sticks 
out  of  his  side.  Though  dying  he  still  guards 
the  bourbon  lily  and  shield  with  his  paw.  Just 
above  him  one  reads  the  inscription,  “To  the  fi- 
delity and  bravery  of  the  Swiss,”  while  beneath 
are  the  names  of  the  officers  whom  the  mob  mur- 
dered. 

A few  feet  to  the  left  is  the  famous  Glacier 
garden  where  you  pay  your  fee  and  see  the  spot 
where  there  are  ancient  glacier  tracks  with  round 
holes  in  the  rock  filled  with  cannon  ball  shaped 
stones  made  by  the  waters  as  they  swirled  and 
moved. 

The  Hofkirche  is  to  Lucerne  what  St.  Peter’s 
is  to  Rome,  an  old  two-spired  church  not  known 
for  its  size,  columns  or  art,  but  for  its  wonder- 
ful organ.  We  made  up  a party  of  twelve,  gave 
a franc  apiece  and  went  there  one  evening.  The 
church  was  dark  as  a vault  and  damp  as  a cellar. 
I covered  my  feet  with  a visitor’s  robe,  some  one 
neld  my  hand  and  I wore  my  clerical  cap  pur- 
chased at  Florence.  But  the  music ! Now  a 
hallelujah  avalanche  of  sound  and  then  an  an- 
gel’s serenade  of  melody.  The  young  Swiss  or- 
ganist showed  his  mastery  of  the  instrument 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  223 


and  then  proceeded  to  make  an  organ  of  our 
souls  and  spines,  playing  every  note  from  pedal 
bass  to  ghostly  treble.  He  concluded  with  a de- 
scription of  an  Alpine  storm,  a tone  picture  of 
his  country;  a summer  day  with  its  mountains, 
valleys,  fields,  herds,  flutes  and  song,  then  cloud, 
silence,  lightning,  thunder,  wind  and  torrents  of 
rain.  It  was  the  real  thing.  I forgot  everything 
in  the  storm.  Then  I remembered  I had  left  my 
mackintosh  and  umbrella  at  the  hotel  and  was 
sure  I would  be  drenched  before  I got  back. 
Suddenly  the  storm  sobbed  itself  to  sleep ; it  grew 
light  and  I heard  the  voice  of  the  choir  praising 
God  for  his  deliverance. 

According  to  art  canons  such  music  is  not  the 
highest,  but  I am  sure  never  this  side  of  heaven 
will  I hear  such  a ‘dost  chord  divine”  and  its 
grand  “amen.” 

There  are  bigger  but  not  more  beautiful  lakes 
than  Lucerne,  twenty-three  miles  in  length  with 
a framed  setting  of  gold  by  day  and  silver  by 
night.  We  sailed  along  looking  at  villages,  val- 
leys and  gardens  mirrored  in  the  blue  depths  be- 
neath. Far  above  and  away  were  distant  crags 
and  pines  looking  longingly  and  lovingly 
towards  the  water  they  could  not  reach, 
but  the  lake  seemed  to  sympathize  with 
them  and  held  them  mirrored  in  her  heart. 


224 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Switzerland  boasts  of  some  of  the  su- 
blimest  mountain  and  water  scenery  in  the 
world;  trackless  precipices,  savage  gorges,  foam 
fretted  rocks,  falls  like  Bridal  Veil  of  Yosemite, 
and  rapid  torrents  crossed  by  devil’s  bridges 
which  make  your  hair  stand  on  end  like  porcu- 
pine’s quills.  One  needs  his  soul  and  body  in- 
sured in  such  a country  and  so  Tell’s  Chapel  is 
welcome.  It  is  said  to  be  built  on  the  spot  where 
he  leaped  ashore  from  Gessler.  I know  the  ex- 
istence of  this  hero  has  been  questioned  as  has 
been  that  of  Hector  and  Achilles,  though  Ar- 
nold says  this  chapel  was  built  by  Tell’s  native 
canton  and  dedicated  to  his  memory  in  the  pres- 
ence of  more  than  a hundred  of  his  relatives  and 
friends.  Doubting  Thomases  have  annihilated 
Moses,  Shakespere  and  Tell,  and  will  soon  de- 
prive us  of  George  Washington  and  Dr.  Mary 
Walker  if  we  permit  them.  It’s  time  they  put 
up  their  little  boxes  of  matches  and  bottles  of 
acid  and  allow  us  to  enjoy  a few  things,  them- 
selves excluded.  History  tells  us  Tell  was  a real 
personage  and  poetry,  painting  and  sculpture 
have  said  the  same  thing.  The  Swiss  look  at 
each  mountain  as  an  “altar  breathing  his  honor,” 
from  the  time  of  the  cradle,  chasing  of  the  cham- 
ois, rowing  of  rippling  lakes,  shooting  of  the  ap- 


LANDAU  HARBOR,  SWITZERLAND 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  225 


pie  from  his  son’s  head  until  he  ended  a noble 
life  by  dying  to  save  one  who  was  drowning. 

I had  the  mountain  fever  and  wanted  to  climb. 
I had  my  glasses  fixed,  my  shoes  soled  with  a 
section  of  hose  pipe  and  ironed  with  a keg  of 
steel  nails.  Thus  regally  attired  I lacked  but 
one  thing — an  Alpine  stock,  the  tourist’s  magic 
wand  and  sceptre.  They  are  of  all  styles,  sizes 
and  prices.  They  become  more  valuable  as  you 
have  the  names  of  the  places,  which  you  have 
visited  or  wanted  to,  or  couldn’t,  or  didn’t, 
burned  on  them.  This  stick  is  the  leading  object 
of  interest  when  you  return  to  your  hotel.  When 
you  get  home,  you  may  have  a whole  cord  wood 
of  selected  canes,  but  you  value  your  Alpine  stock 
as  your  most  cherished  possession. 

On  to  Righi ! was  the  cry,  so  we  took  the  boat 
and  sailed  to  Waggis,  a little  village  at  the  foot 
of  the  mountain.  Righi  looms  overhead  six 
thousand  feet  above  sea  level.  A big  climb,  but 
a glorious  view  of  three  hundred  miles  round 
about  when  you  are  on  top.  Hand  and  foot 
mountain  climbing  have  given  away  to  car  and 
cog,  and  where  the  chamois  lived  you  go  by  rail 
as  easily  as  to  the  top  of  a barn  by  a ladder.  I 
know  it  is  a sham  and  a sacrilege  to  a mountain 
climber,  but  from  my  climbs  on  Pike’s  Peak  and 
elsewhere  I know  it’s  a pleasure  to  a pleasure 


226 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


seeker.  All  aboard  and  on  and  on  we  climb  four 
thousand  five  hundred  feet  above  the  lake  be- 
neath. By  my  side  sat  a man  as  blind  as  Bar- 
timeus  of  Jericho,  dead  to  all  the  beautiful 
scenery  of  mountain,  valley,  village  and  lake. 
The  air  was  frosty  but  a young  bridal  couple 
in  front  of  me  by  tender  endearment  managed 
to  keep  the  whole  party  warm. 

Above  “snowy  summits  old  in  story”  we 
reached  the  hotel  and  with  an  appetite  like  the 
famine  in  Ireland.  The  table  was  spread,  an 
American  flag  was  hung  over  our  heads,  I re- 
sponded to  the  toast  “America,”  which  my 
friends  drank  in  Munich  beer,  then  I played 
Strauss  for  the  party  to  warm  their  feet  by,  made 
friends  with  the  big  St.  Bernard  dogs,  looked  for 
wild  flowers,  mosses,  red  roses,  forget-me-nots 
and  funny,  fuzzy  edelweiss  and  went  out  and 
snowballed  with  the  whitest  snow  you  ever  saw. 
We  were  tired  enough  to  go  to  bed  early. 

The  call  of  the  horn  as  musical  as  that  of  a 
Duluth  fog  horn  woke  the  party  early  in  the 
morning.  Half  dressed,  wrapped  up  in  bad 
clothes,  tied  with  towels  to  keep  from  taking  cold, 
grumbling  and  joking  we  climbed  to  see  the 
sunrise,  something  some  of  the  Virginian  friends 
of  the  party  had  never  seen  before.  But  the 
scene  was  worth  all  the  climb  cost,  when  the 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  227 


gray  turned  to  gold,  the  stars  blinked  themselves 
to  sleep,  the  sun  smiled  upon  the  Jungfrau  and 
her  white-robed  sisters,  glaciers  gleamed  like 
frozen  ocean  waves,  the  sapphire  lake  sparkled 
in  its  granite  setting  and  the  world  awoke  with 
her  power  and  beauty.  We  saw  the  site  of 
Goldau,  and  if  it  is  a grave  Mt.  Righi  is  its 
monument.  As  Pompeii  was  buried  with  fiery 
ashes,  so  this  city  was  destroyed  by  rock,  snow, 
ice,  mud  and  gravel,  by  the  mad  Titan  of  nature ; 
or  shall  I say  the  rocks  which  now  cover  the  place 
were  so  many  mile  stones  to  these  Swiss  so- 
journers on  their  way  to  eternity? 

Swiss  air  is  a tonic  and  its  scenery  a new 
lease  on  life.  When  a man  grows  weary  and 
blase  of  city  life  let  him  come  here  and  kneel  on 
these  Olympian  altars.  It  has  been  finely  said 
“Switzerland  is  a sublime  cathedral  of  moun- 
tains whose  columns  are  majestic  trees ; 
stained  glass,  autumual  foliage ; anthems,  the 
song  of  birds ; requiems,  the  moaning  of  pines ; 
grand  roof,  the  stupendous  arch  of  the  unmeas- 
ured sky,  beneath  which  the  snow-clad  mountains 
rise  like  jeweled  altars  lighted  at  night  as  if  with 
lofty  tapers  by  the  glittering  stars.”  But  Mt. 
Righi  like  some  other  mountains  had  been  curs- 
ing instead  of  blessing,  Gerizim  instead  of  Ebal, 
had  it  not  been  for  my  scholarly,  genial  courier, 


228 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


C.  F Beyers,  who  was  our  “sesame”  all  through 
Africa,  Asia  and  the  continent.  A courier  makes 
hard  work  easy;  to  have  one  is  to  have  heaven, 
to  be  without  one  is  generally  the  other  thing. 
Give  him  the  key  and  he  will  protect  your  bag- 
gage against  the  design  of  the  custom  officer; 
without  loss  of  patience,  time  or  anything  else; 
your  hotel  is  selected  and  you  find  your  bath, 
board  and  bed ; early  next  morning  carriages  and 
guides  are  at  your  door  for  drives;  at  night  the 
theater  is  selected  and  the  seats  purchased ; when 
you  are  about  to  leave  you  escape  the  foreign 
frantic  crowd. 

Switzerland  has  been  described  as  “a  large 
humpy,  solid  rock,  with  a thin  skin  of  grass  cov- 
ered over  it.”  I might  add  there  are  nine  months 
of  winter  when  Medusa  stiffens  nature  into  ice 
and  shrouds  with  snow,  but  there  are  “others” 
in  which  something  may  be  found.  Valleys  smile 
up  in  the  savage  face  of  the  mountains,  green 
hills,  herds  of  goats  and  sheep,  sounds  of  tink- 
ling bells,  jodel  warblings,  rush  of  water  falls, 
curious  cottages  nestling  on  rocky  heights  and 
with  stones  on  top  to  keep  them  from  being 
blown  over,  rocky,  terraces  with  giant  fir  trees, 
flowers  of  many  colors,  tufts  of  grass  and  moss 
and  delicate  ferns,  and  music  of  mountain 
streams  with  lace  of  foam  tell  another  story. 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  229 


Here  the  pine  is  monarch  on  a throne  six  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea  level ; above  him  the 
bright  Alpine  sun  tinging  with  red  the  edge  of 
snow  and  glacier  and  above  this  the  mountain 
grasses.  These  pine  trees  sing  the  summer’s 
requiem  and  offer  security  for  man  and  herd. 
They  draw  the  dew  and  rain,  which  they  slowly 
distribute;  protect  villages  from  storm  and  ava- 
lanche; furnish  fuel  for  fire;  offer  material  for 
the  toys  of  animals,  paper  cutters  and  clocks 
which  are  sent  over  the  world ; or  as  timber  are 
floated  as  rafts  to  Holland  for  masts  or  spars. 
Add  to  this  the  product  of  green  grass,  yellow 
butter,  and  the  best  cheese. 

The  villages  are  small  and  so  situated  as  to 
be  protected  from  avalanche  and  storm.  There 
are  no  big  yards  for  the  herds,  and  the  farms 
use  every  inch  that  can  be  spared.  The  natives 
seem  like  one  big  family  for  society  and  protec- 
tion from  the  dreary  space  and  mountain  soli- 
tude. They  eat  meat  very  seldom,  live  on  cheese 
and  goat’s  milk  and  do  a good  day’s  labor. 
Some  of  the  houses  are  of  red-brown  wood, 
gables  to  the  roads,  eaves  far  stretching,  small 
windows  with  little  panes,  white  curtains,  boxes 
of  flowers  on  the  sill,  while  across  the  front  is 
carved  a flower,  or  fruit,  or  scripture  text.  Other 
houses  are  small,  low,  black,  damp,  unpainted 


230 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


and  with  dirt  floors.  The  first  story  is  occupied 
by  cows  and  goats.  No  chimneys,  no  windows 
except  wooden  shutters  opened  now  and  then  to 
let  out  the  smoke.  I met  several  owners  clad  in 
rough  home-spun,  surrounded  by  the  rudest  of 
furniture. 

The  Swiss  house  was  his  castle  and  he  was 
content.  Three  times  a day  he  ate  porridge  with 
an  iron  spoon  from  the  cheapest  earthen  bowl 
and  was  very  happy.  I think  his  conscience  was 
quiet  and  at  peace  with  his  little  world  and  be- 
yond this  all  was  vacancy.  The  farm  tools  were 
few,  simple  and  self  made ; long  handled  spades 
of  wood  to  dig  the  potatoes,  clumsy  sticks  and 
rakes  to  work  in  the  hay,  and  nets  of  rope  in 
which  barefooted  men  and  women  carried  the  hay 
to  an  old  log  cabin. 

I saw  some  of  the  originals  of  Markham’s 
“Man  with  the  Hoe,”  and  old  wrinkled  women 
bent  beneath  the  weight  of  years,  loaves  of  black 
bread,  or  flat  tubs  of  goat’s  milk.  Ignorance  is 
bliss  with  them.  Their  struggle  with  nature  for 
security  and  support  has  made  them  as  loyal  to 
their  land  as  the  Hollanders  and  Venetians  are 
to  theirs.  They  have  little  time  or  money  for 
dissipation.  Crime  is  infrequent,  the  stone  steps 
of  the  church  are  furrowed  with  footprints  show- 
ing where  for  hundreds  of  years  the  Jacobs  have 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  231 


climbed  to  heaven.  The  spirit  of  Arnold  Von 
Winkelried  at  Sempach  is  true  of  the  Swiss 
whether  they  are  after  an  enemy  or  seeking  to 
provide  for  their  herds  or  homes,  or  to  catch  the 
eagle  or  chamois.  Chamois  hunting  is  the  dan- 
gerous delight  of  the  Swiss.  It  is  the  game  that 
thrills  the  Swiss  with  the  feeling  of  a Rocky 
mountain  hunter  and  trapper ; for  this  he  endures 
fatigue  and  hunger,  leaves  friend  and  family  and 
risks  life  and  limb. 

In  contrast  to  this  bravery  is  Swiss  supersti- 
tion ; I learned  they  are  not  so  much  afraid  of  the 
great  things  as  of  little  sprites,  fairies  and  pig- 
mies, who  are  the  guardian  angels  of  the  fish 
and  chamois,  and  are  believed  to  control  the 
winds,  waters  and  avalanches.  They  come  upon 
one  as  the  dwarfs  did  upon  Rip  Van  Winkle 
when  he  was  going  up  the  mountain.  I didn't 
hunt  for  chamois  but  for  these  dwarfs,  who  are 
said  to  be  covered  with  jaunty  caps  from  under 
which  their  long  hair  reached  the  ground,  and 
to  wear  green  coats  and  a long  gray  beard. 
Perhaps  they  exist  but  I failed  to  see  them.  I 
find  suggestions  here  of  the  Yellowstone, ’Colorado 
and  Yosemite  canyons.  The  St.  Bernard  pass 
is  not  as  grand  as  the  St.  Gotthard,  but  is  known 
for  its  hospices  which  do  for  travelers  here  what 
the  monasteries  do  for  pilgrims  in  Palestine.  The 


232 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


buildings  are  black  with  storm  and  age,  but  the 
faces  of  the  brothers  are  bright  with  the  greatest 
of  graces,  which  is  charity.  I am  sure  they  will 
hear  the  divine  “inasmuch  as  ye  did  it  unto 
Me,”  for  the  many  whom  they  have  befriended. 

The  St.  Gotthard  pass  is  like  the  McGregor’s 
“The  grandest  of  them  all.”  Napoleon’s  law 
built  the  Simplon  pass,  but  the  love  of  the  Swiss 
built  the  Gotthard  with  its  bridges,  tunnels,  gal- 
laries  and  buttresses  which  are  mementoes  of  the 
sacrifice  of  the  cantons  through  which  it  passed. 
Hurried  for  time,  I could  not  drive  over  the 
Axenstrasse,  cut  out  of  the  solid  rock  with  its 
fine  roads  and  galleries  of  grand  views,  so  I went 
by  rail.  Our  engine  crawled  like  a caterpillar 
among  the  clouds,  around  hills,  over  bridges  and 
viaducts,  through  a tunnel  nine  and  one-half 
miles  long,  which  together  with  fifty-five 
others,  make  twenty-five  miles  cut  inch 
by  inch  through  solid  granite.  It  was 
a mathematical  miracle  to  me.  I asked 
myself  how  they  did  it  and  got  as  much 
satisfaction  as  from  the  sphinx,  yet  it  was  done 
and  so  accurately  planned  that  the  Italian  and 
Swiss  workmen  met  at  a calculated  point  from 
opposite  ends,  six  thousand  feet  below  the  sum- 
mit. If  I had  planned  it  one  end  would  have 


MASTERPIECES  OF  SWITZERLAND.  233 


been  in  Norway  and  the  other  toward  Spain,  or 
some  other  point  of  the  compass. 

No,  I didn’t  climb  Mt.  Blanc  or  write  a poem 
on  it.  I left  that  for  Balmat  and  Coleridge,  who 
have  done  it  to  the  “queen’s  taste,”  It’s  easier  to 
climb  by  proxy  and  make  the  ascent  by  telescope. 
I had  an  Alaskan  experience  on  the  Muir  glacier, 
and  one  was  enough.  This  tying  yourself  to- 
gether with  ropes,  using  your  Alpine  stock  as  a 
balancing  pole,  cutting  steps  with  an  axe,  climb- 
ing up  or  being  lowered  with  a rope  in  an  atmos- 
phere of  snow  and  cold,  with  flesh  and  hair 
creeping  all  the  time, — no,  I beg  to  be  excused. 

Goethe  said,  “The  book  of  nature  is  after  all 
the  only  one  which  has  on  every  page  important 
meanings.”  This  page  of  Swiss  nature  is  a les- 
son which  grows  in  grandeur  the  more  I re- 
count it.  Switzerland  is  a gallery  where  God 
has  carved  some  of  his  greatest  granite  master- 
pieces; it  is  an  auditorium  where  he  has  played 
some  of  his  most  majestic  music  in  eternal  foun- 
tains fed  by  glaciers,  whispering  now  with  low 
voice  like  Cordelia,  or  raving  or  roaring  like 
Lear.  Walter  Scott  said,  “If  I could  not  see 
my  own  heather  covered  hills  at  least  once  in  a 
year,  I believe  I should  die.”  This  must  explain 
the  homesick  yearning  which  the  Swiss  have  in 
America  as  they  settle  on  our  rugged  hillsides, 


234 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


and  which  fills  the  heart  of  the  clerical  tourist 
who  wishes  his  salary  was  big  enough  to  allow 
him  to  go  there  every  year. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 

We  left  Switzerland  and  Austria,  with  their 
solemn  pines,  thrifty  country,  polite  officials  at 
the  stations,  crosses  and  wayside  shrines,  poor 
women  working  in  the  fields  and  men  gathering 
peat  rakings  for  charcoal  burnings;  took  the 
train  for  Romanshorn,  thence  by  boat  over  fair 
Lake  Constance,  to  Lindau,  with  its  fine  harbor, 
on  to  Kempton,  with  its  manufactures,  and  to 
Kaiferling  and  Munich. 

My  hotel  was  the  Bayerischerhof,  large  and 
finely  furnished,  with  a lounging  room  in  which 
there  was  a bed  that  looked  like  an  old  sailing 
vessel.  After  a bill  of  fare,  which  caused  one 
to  shed  tears  of  gratitude,  we  drove  to  the  statue 
of  Bavaria,  one  hundred  and  seventy  feet  high, 
and  to  the  Temple  of  Fame,  in  which  a few 
niches  are  left  for  geniuses  to  come  after  us ; 
then  to  the  old  Pinakothek,  which,  like  the  Vati- 
can, contains  many  pictures  by  the  old  masters; 
later  to  the  New  Pinakothek,  with  works  from 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


235 


modern  artists  and  Katilbach’s  famous  frescoes. 
Last  of  all  to  the  Glyptothek,  with  galleries  of 
statuary,  Egyptian  and  Greek  and  art  curios  sec- 
ond only  to  Dresden  and  Berlin.  The  bronze 
foundry  contains  the  models  of  all  the  great  stat- 
ues of  the  world,  including  our  own  Washington, 
Lincoln  and  the  bronze  doors  of  the  capitol.  One 
of  the  show  places  is  the  great  slaughter  house,  a 
credit  to  any  in  this  country,  covering  nearly 
nine  hundred  acres  and  with  some  of  the  finest 
looking  cattle  I ever  saw  outside  of  a fair  ground. 

A short  drive  brought  us  to  the  royal  stables, 
with  their  fine  horses  and  carriages.  This  city 
boasts  some  fine  statues  of  Maximilian,  Louis 
I.,  and  an  obelisk  to  the  memory  of  the  thirty 
thousand  Bavarians  who  died  in  Napoleon’s  Mos- 
cow expedition.  A number  of  fine  parks  and  pub- 
lic buildings,  and  manv  opportunities  for  shop- 
ping and  sights  are  plainly  remembered,  especially 
some  questionable  pictures  and  art  cards,  which 
the  proprietors  had  no  modest  fears  from  exhib- 
iting in  their  windows.  After  passing  through 
the  Victory  Gate,  which  resembles  the  Constan- 
tine Arch  in  Rome,  I met  Mr.  Heinemann,  the 
artist,  who  took  me  to  his  private  gallery  of  pic- 
tures of  the  modern  school  and  entertained  me 
with  talk  of  artists  and  their  work. 

Good  Friday  was  observed  there  with  solem- 


236 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


nity,  theaters  and  concert  halls  being  closed,  but 
on  Saturday  I met  a German  in  the  rotunda  of 
the  hotel,  who  invited  me  to  go  with  him,  saying 
I could  have  a good  time,  drink  my  ten  glasses 
of  beer,  listen  to  the  “Stars  and  Stripes,”  come 
home,  smoke  and  sleep  well.  I let  him  go  his 
own  gait.  Later  I went  to  the  big  Hofbrauhaus, 
where  I found  accommodation  for  five  thousand 
people  who  might  care  to  worship  the  God  Gam- 
brinus.  What  a sight ! Old  and  young,  rich  and 
poor,  families  and  friends,  sweethearts  and  lov- 
ers, and  all  drinking  beer,  beer,  pure,  cold,  sweet 
and  delicious,  and  varying  the  program  with  oc- 
casional pretzels,  cheese,  sandwiches,  music,  cards 
and  cigars.  I came  and  saw  and  was  not  con- 
quered, but  a stein  near  me  bore  this  inscription : 
“The  man  who  never  sat  down  with  a stein  of 
Muncher  in  his  hand  doesn’t  know  how  much 
better  God  had  been  to  the  Bavarians  than  to  the 
rest  of  the  world.” 

Too  much  beer  must  have  led  a tired  Teuton 
to  say  “Der  ghost  is  retty  but  der  meat  is  weak.” 

Boarding  a train  where  engineer,  fireman  and 
officials  were  armed  with  steins  of  beer,  we  sped 
by  Inglestadt’s  battle  field,  where  Adolphus  was 
checked  by  Pappenheim,  and  reached  Neuren- 
berg  a mediaeval  city  with  its  feudal  walls,  moats, 
towers,  narrow  and  crooked  streets.  There  is  a 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


237 


proverb,  “Nurenberg’s  hand  goes  through  every 
land,”  and  Longfellow  has  sung  the  history  of 
the  village  in  a poem  childish  hearts  never  for- 
get. We  came  here  at  night.  After  an  early 
breakfast  of  sausage,  black  bread  and  coffee,  we 
drove  to  the  church  of  St.  Laurence,  formerly 
Roman  Catholic,  now  Protestant,  the  windows, 
pulpit  and  crosses  being  sacredly  preserved.  It 
contains  Krafft’s  fifty-five  foot  gothic  spire  of 
saints  in  stone,  standing  by  the  altar,  and  has 
been  compared  to  a “foamy  sheaf  of  fountain  ris- 
ing through  the  painted  air.”  Another  church 
is  St.  Sebold’s  with  Visscher  s bronze  shrine,  fit 
to  be  compared  with  the  work  of  Ghiberti,  while 
the  Church  of  Our  Lady  possesses  some  fine 
stained  glass  windows  and  pictures  by  Wohlge- 
muth. 

Here  and  there  one  finds  parks  in  imitation 
of  those  in  England;  old  gates  and  walls  of  the 
old  town  still  standing;  modern  buildings 
planned  after  models  two  thousand  years  old ; 
columns  erected  in  a square  to  commemorate  the 
defeat  of  the  Protestants  near  Prague  in  the 
Thirty  Years’  War;  Town  House  with  frescoes 
by  Durer,  called  the  Evangelist  of  Art ; houses  of 
Sachs,  Durer  and  Palm,  the  patriotic  book-seller 
whom  Napoleon  ordered  shot;  statues  of  Mel- 
ancthon  and  other  celebrities;  fountains  known 


238 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


as  the  Goose,  Manikin,  Pyramid  with  statues,  and 
others  rich  with  sculpture  standing  in  the  old 
mart ; cemetery  of  noted  men,  and  Krafft’s  seven 
pillars  with  Passion  in  stone  relief. 

Of  great  interest  is  the  castle,  the  royal  pic- 
tures, the  elm  tree,  seven  hundred  years  old,  and 
the  instruments  of  torture  that  taxed  the  in- 
genuity of  Satan  to  invent;  thumb-screws,  axes, 
racks,  pinchers,  stretchers  and  the  Virgin,  whose 
spiked  embrace  crushed  out  many  a life.  I felt 
the  edge  of  the  sword  that  had  cut  off  eight  hun- 
dred heads  ,and  was  good  for  as  many  more. 
This  torture  chamber  in  Conrad's  castle  gives  one 
a horrible  nightmare  that  made  Tam  O’Shanter’s 
a pleasure  in  comparison.  The  city  prides  itself 
in  being  the  first  to  side  with  the  Reformation 
and  accept  Protestantism. 

Our  party  will  pleasantly  remember  the  old 
market  place  in  the  early  morning;  the  peasants 
in  their  odd  costumes,  selling  eggs,  flowers  and 
fruit,  and  the  women  and  boys  who  were  hitched 
up  with  dogs  to  the  queer  carts.  A visit  to  Ru- 
bens’ house,  with  its  pictures,  and  to  Hans 
Sach’s,  where  he  and  Rubens  and  the  boys 
“drank  her  down,”  were  of  interest.  Here  were 
the  old  pewter  cups,  filled  and  emptied  so  many 
times.  I handled  them  and  while  thinking  of 
the  fingers  now  dust  which  had  held  them,  re- 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


230 


membered  that  life  was  “more  than  meat  and  the 
body  than  raiment.”  Of  this  town  of  toil  and 
traffic,  of  art  and  song,  with  its  pointed  gables 
and  flying  rooks  Longfellow  sings : “Not  thy 

councils,  not  thy  kaisers,  win  for  thee  the  world’s 
regard,  but  thy  painter,  Albrecht  Durer,  and 
Hans  Sachs,  thy  cobbler  bard.” 

Dresden  is  called  the  “German  Florence,”  but 
I found  it  more  religious  than  the  Italian  city. 
It  has  a Lutheran  population,  but  Catholics  and 
Protestants  vied  with  each  other  in  a gorgeous 
Easter  celebration.  The  Frauein  is  shaped  like 
the  Parthenon,  the  organ  was  high,  the  loft  to- 
wards the  ceiling,  and  choir  and  crowd  and  con- 
gregation joined  in  praises.  I also  attended  the 
Hof  Kirche,  where  there  was  a splendid  orches- 
tra, organ  and  choir.  In  the  afternoon  we 
walked  along  the  Elbe,  which  is  a fashionable 
promenade.  The  river  was  way  over  the  rail- 
road tracks,  but  there  were  two  fine  bridges  con- 
necting the  old  and  new  town,  over  which  we 
rode.  Gardens,  parks,  barracks  and  crowds 
formed  an  interesting  spectacle. 

On  fhe  principle  of  “the  better  the  day  the 
better  the  deed,”  some  of  our  party  went  to  the 
Konig’s  theater  to  hear  Weber’s  Oberon.  It  is 
a fine  building  and  everything  which  the  great- 
est lover  of  music  could  desire.  The  city  is 


240 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


noted  as  an  artistic,  scientific  and  literary  center, 
seen  in  her  collections  of  pictures,  specimens  and 
manuscripts  in  buildings  dedicated  to  their  ex- 
hibition. The  inhabitant  is  very  versatile  and 
will  make  beer  for  your  stomach,  flowers  for 
your  hat  and  any  kind  of  wind  instrument  for 
your  mouth.  I found  it  O.  K:  or  as  the  Ger- 
man would  say,  “Jah  wohl,  wunderschon.”  The 
royal  palace  has  a tower  and  a chapel,  contain- 
ing many  fine  pictures.  The  Bruhl  palace  and 
terrace  were  imposing  with  their  steps  and  Schil- 
ling’s statues  of  Morning,  Evening,  Day  and 
Night.  The  Japanese  palace  has  a fine  collection 
of  classics^  coins  and  ceramics.  The  Grosser 
Garten  is  a kind  of  pleasure  resort.  The  his- 
torical museum  has  illustrations  of  past  peoples 
and  customs.  The  Green  Vault  has  eight  rooms 
full  of  treasures;  gold,  silver,  ivory  and  pearl, 
and  a large  green  brilliant  representing  the 
dwarf  of  Charles  II.,  of  Spain.  I noticed  a his- 
torical plate  of  silver,  four  feet  by  four  inches 
square,  with  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  figures, 
but  I was  hungry  enough  to  prefer  a square  meal 
with  a cup  of  black  coffee  to  wash  it  down.  The 
museum  contains  some  of  the  world’s  leading 
master  pieces  of  art.  I stood  entranced  by  Ra- 
phael’s beautiful  Madonna  di  San  Sisto;  Correg- 
gio’s “Holy  Night”  was  a benediction;  Rem- 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


241 


brandt’s  portrait  of  himself  and  his  wife  sitting 
on  his  knee,  bade  us  welcome,  while  engravings, 
drawings  and  casts  suggested  wealth  of  skill  and 
beauty. 

I visited  the  race  track,  for  Paul  himself  went 
to  the  stadium  and  uses  athletic  figures  in  his 
writings.  The  band  played  Sousa’s  Cadet 
march  and  the  horses  were  booked  for  a run- 
ning and  hurdle  race.  I perceived  a divided 
duty  between  the  track  and  the  king  and  some 
American  girls,  who  were  impudent  enough  to 
take  aim  at  him  with  their  kodak.  My  guide 
wanted  to  know  if  I would  bet.  I told  him  no 
and  vainly  tried  to  prove  to  him  the  difference 
between  a man  who  has  the  face  of  a sport  and 
the  instincts  of  a minister  and  the  one  who  has 
the  face  of  a minister  and  the  instincts  of  a sport. 
It  was  an  orderly  crowd.  I saw  no  signs  of 
gambling  and  the  hurdle  race  was  won  by  Vir- 
ginia Rose,  one  of  my  southern  lady  friends, 
“bred  in  old  Kentucky.”  There  are  some  things 
in  the  land  where  “the  sun  shines  bright”  which 
are  hard  to  beat  and  one  of  them  is  a thorough- 
bred horse. 

They  say  “Clothes  make  the  man.”  I sup- 
pose they  mean  the  man  makes  clothes,  just  as 
Wordsworth,  when  he  said,  “The  child 
is  father  of  the  man,”  meant  the  man  was 


24 2 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  father  of  the  child.  Some  of  my  friends 
wanted  some  new  clothes,  tuxedoes,  which  could 
be  made  to  order  for  $15,  if  they  would  only  pre- 
tend they  were  government  officials.  They  were 
measured  and  paid  the  price  of  lying  by  looking 
like  orphans  in  a strange  land.  Europe  has 
the  stock  but  hasn’t  the  style.  I would  rather 
pay  more  in  America  and  have  a better  fit. 

“On  to  Berlin”  was  our  cry.  The  scenery  to- 
wards the  city  was  quite  tame,  only  enlivened  by 
big  windmills.  Our  hotel  had  five  hundred  rooms 
and  like  the  colored  race,  all  “look  alike  to  me.” 
At  my  door  I was  garroted  by  an  official  for  m3' 
name.  He  slipped  on  the  word  Gulian  and  fell 
down  on  my  occupation  as  minister,  of  which  he 
had  serious  doubts.  But  there  was  a fine  dinner 
at  which  the  band,  recognizing  our  nationality, 
gave  us  the  “Belle  of  New  York”  and  “The  Stars 
and  Stripes.”  Next  door  I found  a pleasure 
hall  with  a variety  show,  at  which  at  least  three 
thousand  people  were  present.  The  bill  of  fare 
was  vocal  and  instrumental  music,  a wrestling 
match  and  kinetoscopic  pictures  of  the  British 
and  Boer  war,  at  the  sight  of  which  the  crowd 
hissed  Kitchener  and  applauded  Kruger.  My 
friend  and  I got  down  from  the  table  on  which 
we  had  stood  and  madejt  a stand  for  refresh- 
ments. 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


243 


The  Spree  river,  on  which  the  town  is  situated, 
makes  it  very  easy  to  go  on  one  here,  at  any 
rate.  I started  out  of  the  hotel  the  next  morn- 
ing by  giving  a fountain  pen  to  a German  girl, 
who  thought  it  a clinical  thermometer,  and  I 
concluded  at  night  by  giving  a mark  for  a rose- 
bud, which  proved  me  an  easy  one  for  assaults 
on  my  purse.  The  city  used  to  be  walled  and 
had  more  than  a dozen  gates.  The  Brandenberg 
gate  remains  with  its  Grecian  architecture;  the 
central  arch  is  reserved  for  royalty  and  those  on 
either  side  for  common  people.  Over  our  head 
stood  the  car  of  victory,  which  Napoleon  took  to 
Paris  and  the  Germans  brought  back  in  pro- 
cession. 

The  city  boasts  splendid  public  buildings  of 
all  kinds,  and  some  few  architecturally  beautiful 
bridges.  The  finest  street  is  Unter  den  Linden, 
not  as  beautiful  as  Champs  Elysee  for  trees,  but 
more  so  for  public  statues  and  palaces.  It  was 
here  I heard  the  cry,  saw  the  crowd,  and  met 
Emperor  William,  whom  the  loyal  inhabitants 
wildly  run  and  rave  after.  Berlin  is  the  center 
of  military  art;  its  god  is  Mars;  its  armory  is 
decorated  with  military  signs  and  statues,  and 
the  guardhouse  of  the  royal  palace  has  soldiers 
ready  to  quell  a riot  at  a moment’s  notice,  or  to 
line  up  and  salute  some  distinguished  personage. 


244 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


They  failed  to  recognize  us.  The  hack  system 
is  good.  No  crowd  of  drivers  to  tear  you  to 
pieces,  but  a gentlemanly  invitation  to  ride  at 
the  rate  of  fifteen  cents  a quarter  of  an  hour  with 
a clock  before  you  to  indicate  the  time  and  num- 
ber of  miles  traveled.  We  went  shopping  for 
shirts  and  handkerchiefs,  and  by  a mistaken  or- 
der got  everything  in  the  store  but  a set  of  bed 
and  table  linen. 

We  attended  the  Royal  Theater  and  were  there 
just  in  time  to  get  our  seats  before  the  first  note 
was  struck.  This  American  idea  of  coming  in 
at  all  hours  of  the  night  and  disturbing  the  lead- 
er and  the  audience  is  not  permitted.  This  roy- 
al opera  house,  built  by  Frederick  the  Great,  is 
a kind  of  German  home,  for  the  Germans  live  on 
music.  They  come  here  not  so  much  to  show 
off  their  good  clothes  as  to  hear  good  music. 
The  concert  begins  at  6:30  or  7 o’clock  and  is 
over  by  10,  so  that  you  are  not  worn  out  for  the 
next  day’s  work.  You  pay  anywhere  from  15  to 
30  cents,  keep  quiet  until  the  end  of  the  selection, 
and  then  have  an  intermission  for  applause,  beer 
and  pretzels,  if  you  wish. 

The  Germans  are  noted  for  beer  and  music. 
It  has  been  estimated  that  two  million  glasses  of 
beer  are  drunk  daily  in  Berlin,  more  than  one  for 
every  man,  woman  and  child  in  the  city — yet 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


245 


here,  as  elsewhere,  I saw  no  drunkenness.  The 
beer  must  be  better,  the  climate  healthier,  or  the 
people  stronger  than  they  are  in  America.  I 
took  nothing  but  mineral  water,  yet,  unless  my 
eyes  deceived  me,  the  night  morals  of  Berlin  are 
as  bold  and  bad  as  those  of  Paris.  Weary,  I 
tried  to  get  in  room  63,  instead  of  47.  Startled 
surprise  was  indicated  by  some  soprano  notes, 
but  I quickly  returned  the  key  on  the  peg,  and 
so  avoided  Mr.  Pickwick’s  famous  experience,  or 
something  worse. 

Of  course  I saw  the  royal  museum,  with  its 
fine  park  and  statues,  and  admired  the  basin  of 
polished  granite  sixty-six  feet  in  circumference.  I 
visited  the  Thiergarten,  its  walks  and  menagerie, 
listened  to  its  music  and  enjoyed  the  beautiful 
statue  of  Louise  upon  the  island  which  bears 
her  name.  Then  to  Charlottenberg,  with  its 
tombs  of  royalty,  marble  couches,  and  the  col- 
ored light  falling  from  the  upper  windows  with 
a beauty  suggesting  the  resurrection  morn.  The 
palace  of  Babelsberg  is  of  interest  because  occu- 
pied by  old  King  William  in  summer  time. 

But  most  historic  ot  all  is  Potsdam,  the  Ger- 
man Versailles.  In  the  royal  palace  here  Fred- 
erick received  his  ambassadors.  I went  into  the 
secret  cabinet  and  saw  the  table  which  descended 
through  the  floor  to  the  kitchen  beneath,  so 


246 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


avoiding  the  servants’  ears  and  eyes,  which  are 
so  often  annoying.  The  king’s  social  habits  were 
peculiar.  His  suppers  were  generally  stag  par- 
ties. He  had  few  women  friends,  except  his  sis- 
ter, who  came  to  his  court.  He  was  a great 
dog  fancier,  and  of  his  favorites  he  literally  said, 
“Love  me,  love  my  dog.”  He  allowed  them  the 
greatest  freedom,  even  to  destroying  the  cur- 
tains and  tapestry,  saying,  even  then,  that  they 
were  “less  expensive  than  women.”  An  historic 
tree  is  the  Tree  of  Petitions,  on  which  the  peo- 
ple hung  their  complaints,  and  concerning  one 
of  which  Frederick  said:  “All  religions  must  be 

tolerated,  but  none  must  m.ake  unjust  encroach- 
ments upon  others.  In  this  country  every  man 
must  get  to  heaven  in  his  own  way.”  He  was 
surely  sensible  and  scriptural,  and  it  will  be  a 
good  day  when  the  priest  and  laity  of  all  com- 
munions come  to  this  conclusion. 

Sans  Souci  was  the  favorite  residence  of  this 
Frederick  the  Great.  I climbed  the  terraced 
stairs,  looked  at  and  listened  to  the  fountains 
which  sang  a lullaby  for  Frederick  when  he  lay 
down  his  sword  for  pen,  music  and  book.  I en- 
tered the  concert  room  and  reverently  placed  my 
hands  upon  the  old  piano  which  Bach  had  played 
so  many  times.  Here,  too,  Voltaire,  the  witty 
and  wicked,  flattered  Frederick  into  a kind  of 


FAMED  CITIES  OF  GERMANY. 


247 


friendship,  but  it  was  only  of  short  duration,  the 
time  coming  when  he  said,  “The  king  sends  me 
his  soiled  linen  to  wash.”  Then  as  now  true 
friendship  between  man  or  woman  requires  heart 
as  well  as  brain.  Near  by  is  the  old  historic  mill 
that  the  king  failed  to  get  from  the  poor  peasant 
who  later  generously  allowed  him  to  have  it.  I 
too,  failed  to  get  it  because  of  an  imperfect  film. 
The  Orangery,  built  in  the  Italian  style,  is  full 
of  art.  We  were  too  early  to  enter  the  king’s 
new  palace  and  I disgusted  the  guard  and  sol- 
diers by  saying,  “Es  macht  nichts  aus.” 

I wish,  though,  I might  have  seen  King  Wil- 
liam here  and  told  him  I was  sorry  he  was  so 
friendly  to  the  Sultan  and  congratulated  him, 
“that  his  precious  life  had  been  spared  from  the 
earthquake  shock  at  Constantinople.”  Howev- 
er, Germany  may  have  received  some  valuable 
railroad  concessions  in  Asia  Minor  to  warrant 
such  a congratulation. 

Pope  was  no  fool  when  he  spoke  in  his  “Dun- 
ciad”  of  “The  right  divine  of  kings  to  govern 
wrong.” 


248 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

LEIPZIG,  FRANKFORT,  THE  RHINE. 

Leipzig  is  the  town  that  gives  you  the  glad 
hand  of  “wine,  women  and  song.”  A fine  city 
which  might  be  called  Three  Rivers  from  the 
streams  in  and  around  it.  Its  buildings  are 
large  and  stately;  it  has  fine  statues  of  Schiller 
and  Mendelssohn;  the  Pauliner  and  Thomas 
Kirches  invite  you  to  pray;  the  museum  offers 
paintings,  casts,  sculptures,  engravings  and 
drawings  manifold;  the  library  with  its  ancient 
volumes  and  manuscripts  is  a paradise  for  stu- 
dents to  revel  in;  while  there  are  books  in  stores 
for  worms  and  book  worms.  Leipzig  stands  for 
music;  its  Gewandhaus  is  a fine  building,  far- 
famed  for  its  annual  concerts.  The  royal  con- 
servatory was  founded  in  1843  by  Mendelssohn 
and  the  city  boasts  many  vocal  and  orchestral 
societies. 

There  are  three  great  annual  fairs  which  draw 
crowds  of  buyers  to  the  great  fur  and  wool  mar- 
ket. These  gatherings  date  from  the  fifteenth 
century.  One  of  the  most  interesting  places  is 
Auerbach’s  Kellar,  dating  from  1438,  the  scene 
of  Dr.  Faustus.  Here  Goethe  received  inspira- 
tion for  his  immortal  tragedy.  They  show  you 


LEIPZIG,  FRANKFORT,  THE  RHINE.  249 


his  room  with  its  curios  and  pictures  on  the  wall, 
of  sixteenth  century  illustration,  portraying  the 
legend  on  which  the  play  is  founded.  The  thing 
to  do  is  to  sit  at  one  of  the  tables  and  drink  a 
kind  of  wine  and  dream  of  Mephistopheles.  I 
met  a man  there  who  had  drunk  too  much  and 
was  acting  like  his  Satanic  majesty.  The  Schiller 
Strasse  is  a fine  street,  but  the  town’s  leading 
impression  is  a musical  one.  No  matter  what 
your  nationality  you  may  find  here  the  universal 
language  of  music ; may  be  “lapped  in  soft 
Lydian  airs”  unless  you  are  spoiled  and  “fit  for 
treasons.”  Was  Shakespeare  right  when  he 
said,  “Preposterous  ass  who  does  not  know  music 
was  ordained  to  refresh  the  mind  of  man,  after 
his  studies  or  his  usual  pain?” 

Frankfort  is  situated  on  the  Oder  river,  but  I 
detected  several  other  sausage  smells  like  linked 
sweetness  long  drawn  out,  which  the  geography 
of  the  town  does  not  enumerate.  The  city  has 
outgrown  its  old  walls,  but  bridges  the  river  to 
a Damm  suburb.  It  is  known  in  history  for  the 
siege  of  Charles  IV.;  papal  excommunication, 
and  capture  by  Gustavus  Adolphus  in  1631. 
There  is  a fine  boulevard  around  the  old  walls; 
an  equestrian  statue  of  Wilhelm  I.  and  of  Guten- 
burg,  the  alleged  inventor  of  printing.  The 
town  has  a number  of  historic  houses;  private 


250 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


ones  of  Martin  Luther,  Goethe  and  Rothschild ; 
the  public  Rathhaus,  with  a sign  of  the  Hanseatic 
league  on  the  southern  gable.  It  boasts  a palm 
garden  from  which  Milwaukee’s  Schlitz  may 
have  taken  a cue;  a fine  theater  and  a great  rail- 
road depot  which  would  do  credit  to  St.  Louis. 
There  are  three  annual  fairs.  St.  Mary’s  Prot- 
estant church  and  dome  are  worth  a visit  and 
study. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  things  here  or  any- 
where is  the  statue  of  Ariadne,  owned  by  a rich 
citizen  and  exhibited  in  his  private  gallery.  We 
were  loath  to  leave  the  town,  but  found  a com- 
pensation on  the  train  in  the  company  of  a lady 
and  gentlemen  who  knew  how  to  talk  English. 
It  was  a relief  from  some  people  in  the  hotel  who 
had  embarrassed  me  so  that  I had  stuck  my  pen 
in  the  mucilage  bottle  and  for  a time  could  pro- 
ceed no  further.  They  finally  left  me,  when  an- 
other native  asked:  ‘'Say,  you  live  in  Chicago, 

America;  you  know  Mr.  Gates?” 

Wiesbaden  is  a kind  of  Manitou;  very  fash- 
ionable and  frequented  by  those  who  need  wa- 
ter, hot  or  cold.  Pliny  mentions  the  town  and 
its  baths  were  known  to  the  Romans  as  a cure 
for  many  ills.  The  water  contains  a little  salt, 
carbonic  acid  and  a hundred  and  fifty-six  de- 
grees of  heat,  which  may  be  reduced  to  ninety- 


LEIPZIG  FRANKFORT.  THE  RHINE.  251 


five,  more  or  less,  as  you  please.  The  springs 
are  “hot  stuff,”  next  to  the  Yellowstone  Park 
the  hottest  water  I ever  touched  or  tasted.  You 
may  bathe  or  soak  in  it  and  it  will  sluice  out  of 
you  all  the  diseases  known,  or  you  may  drink  it, 
served  from  a yellow  hot  caldron,  by  a pretty 
girl  in  a thin  glass  (this  sentence  is  constructed 
on  the  most  improved  German  plan).  The  place 
used  to  be  a kind  of  Monte  Carlo,  but  the  gov- 
ernment suppressed  public  gambling  and  it 
seems  to  be  quite  proper  now.  There  are 
churches  for  all  creeds  and  a Greek  one  with 
about  five  steeples;  a museum,  a theater,  a pic- 
ture gallery,  a palace,  a cursall  and  park.  The 
leading  spring  at  this  German  Saratoga  is  the 
Kochbrunnen,  of  which  I drank  freely.  It  was 
near  my  hotel,  a large  building  with  large  rooms 
and  two  little  candles  in  mine  to  make  darkness 
all  the  greater,  as  my  shins  could  testify. 

A short  ride  by  rail  brought  us  to  Biberich, 
where  we  found  the  steamer  Frauenlob  waiting 
to  sail  us  down  the  Rhine.  The  boat  was  well 
named,  for  on  board  there  was  a loving  young 
married  couple.  She  was  pretty,  and,  like  other 
grooms,  he  was  awkward,  with  an  affection  he 
could  not  conceal.  Every  now  and  then  he  drew 
a big  handkerchief  from  hjs  pants  front  pocket, 
but  it  was  not  capacious  enough  to  hide  the 


252 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


way  he  looked  or  the  words  he  uttered.  It  was 
a beautiful  day,  and  we  were  in  fine  spirits.  The 
river  is  not  so  beautiful  as  our  Hudson,  Missis- 
sippi or  Columbia,  in  places,  but  in  history  and 
legend'  it  outrivals  them  all. 

From  the  earliest  of  times  this  river  has  been 
one  of  the  chief  waterways  of  Europe.  Eight 
hundred  miles  long,  navigable  for  six  hundred 
and  draining  a territorv  of  more  than  seventy- 
five  thousand  square  miles.  It  is  a link  between 
the  Alpine  tops  of  Switzerland  and  the  mud 
banks  of  Holland ; it  issues  from  a mountain 
stream  of  snow  and  ice,  leaves  its  muddy  burden 
at  Lake  Constance,  leaps  eighty  feet  over  the  falls 
at  Schaffhausen,  runs  by  the  Black  Forest  at 
Lauterburg,  narrows  at  Bingen  and  flattens  out 
above  Cologne  as  the  Hudson  does  above  Pough- 
keepsie. My  friend  and  I were  “ein  herz”  and 
“ein  sinn”  as  we  sang  “Die  Wacht  am  Rhine” 
and  “Der  Vaterland.”  A German  passenger 
united  with  us  in  a rich  voice,  but  when  we 
switched  off  on  “Le  Marsellaise”  he  scowled  like 
thunder  and  muttered  “Ach,  Gott.”  But  we  were 
fair,  for  this  river  has  been  politically  significant 
since  four  centuries  before  Christ  ,and  has  made 
history,  Romanic  and  Franco-Germanic,  from 
Julius  Caesar  to  Bismarck. 

Today  Father  Rhine  stirs  a German’s  patriotic 


LEIPZIG,  FRANKFORT,  THE  RHINE.  253 


blood  and  symbolizes  his  land  as  America  and 
the  eagle  do  ours.  Some  of  the  many  things  of 
interest  which  I saw  were  the  Johannisberg  vine- 
yards, with  their  stone  terraces  and  soil-filled 
hanging  gardens  of  luscious  grapes,  whence 
comes  the  famous  wine ; castles  in  good 
- state  of  preservation  or  in  ruins,  filled  with  mem- 
ories of  murder  which  the  mantling  ivy  could  not 
wholly  conceal;  Rheinfels,  a synonym  of  rob- 
bery; Rheinstein,  the  beautiful  summer  residence 
of  the  German  emperor;  the  Mouse  Tower  of 
Bishop  Hatto,  whom  Southey  immortalized  in 
his  poem. 

Bingen  made  “fair”  in  respect  to  the  German 
soldier  who  “lay  dying  at  Algiers;”  Niederwald 
on  the  wooden  hill  opposite,  with  its  national 
statue  in  honor  of  victory  over  France,  with  his- 
toric figures  and  its  inspiring  “Wacht;”  Bachar- 
ach  with  St.  Werner’s  Chapel  in  memory  of  the 
boy  who  was  murdered  by  the  Jews  and  whose 
body,  flung  in  the  river,  floated  up  the  stream; 
Toll  House,  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  on  a 
rocky  foundation,  to  collect  boat  fares,  with  a 
dungeon  beneath  and  other  lignt  refreshments  if 
you  didn’t  “fork  over;”  St.  Goar  village,  whose 
patron  boatman  forcibly  baptized  a man  and 
then  drowned  him  to  send  him  straight  to  heav- 
en before  he  could  fall  from  grace,  and  who, 


254 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


when  remonstrated  with  for  his  unprofessional 
zeal,  proved  his  divine  authority  by  hanging  his 
hat  on  a sunbeam ; Lorelei  cliffs,  four  hundred 
and  fifty  feet  high,  and  more  than  that  in  song 
and  story,  with  dark  and  dangerous  waters  at 
their  base  to  wreck  the  craft  of  oar  and  sail, 
while  enthroned  above  sat  the  girl  with  the  gold- 
en hair  to  lure  the  simple  sailor  to  destruction. 
Today  she  is  wreathed  with  smoke  and  steam  as 
the  steamboat  speeds  by  her  feet : 

Castles  of  Brothers  who  loved  the  same  wo- 
man with  a perplexing  and  unhappy  circum- 
stance that  generally  accompanies  such  a sin- 
gular affair  and  naturally  leads  to  a duel;  walls 
of  Falkenburg,  whose  bandit  stole  the  silver 
church  bell  and  then  hung  it  upon  the  neck  of 
the  complaining  bishop  and  threw  him  in  the 
well,  only  to  find  it  ringing  his  thieving  knell; 
Coblentz  at  the  confluence  of  the  Rhine  and  Mo- 
sel, a strong  military  point  for  two  thousand 
years ; Ehrenbreitstein,  the  German  Gibraltar, 
just  across  from  Coblentz,  formidable  in  appear- 
ance and  filled  with  dark  and  deadly  secrets  of 
arms,  powder  and  shell ; Stolzenfels  castle,  high 
up  and  airy  as  the  proverbial  castle  in  Spain ; 
Ems,  just  opposite  a famous  watering  place  with 
a national  monument  surmounted  by  an  eagle, 
which  doesn't  look  like  sharing  a nest  with  a dove 


LEIPZIG,  FRANKFORT,  THE  RHINE.  255 


for  some  years  to  come;  Seven  Mountains,  the 
Rhine’s  highest  elevation,  the  king  of  which  is 
the  Drachenfels,  full  of  dragon  history  in  its 
old  ruins,  but  more  inviting  now  in  the  new  cas- 
tle which  has  taken  its  place,  and  Rolandseck 
Tower,  a mass  of  ruins  around  which  linger  love 
legends,  strong  and  new  as  the  human  heart. 

Wagner  had  not  far  to  go  to  find  a stream 
of  inspiration  which  has  made  him  a kind  of 
Shakespeare  in  the  musico-dramatic  world. 

In  all  this  I have  just  outlined  the  skeleton  of 
what  was  a beautiful,  breathing  trip,  and  must 
be  shared  to  be  appreciated.  Victor  Hugo,  com- 
paring it  with  the  Seine,  Rhone,  Tiber,  Danube 
and  Nile,  says : “Le  Rhin  reunit  tout.” 

Cologne,  decorated  with  flags,  gave  us  a wel- 
come, but  I learned  it  was  the  occasion  of  the 
fiftieth  anniversary  of  guarding  the  town.  It 
had  a record  in  the  old  Roman  times ; boasted 
the  names  of  Trajan  and  Silvanus,  and  was 
named  by  Nero’s  mother  Colonia  Agrippina.  It 
is  connected  by  a pontoon  bridge  of  hundreds  of 
boats  to  Deutz  across  the  Rhine.  We  drove 
around  the  city,  its  old  walls,  admired  the  big 
railroad  bridge  and  King  William’s  statue,  visit- 
ed stores  and  shops,  making  purchases  of  its  fa- 
mous soap  and  eau  de  cologne.  I showed  my 
sympathy  with  the  Salvation  Army  by  buying 


256 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


copies  of  its  “Krieg’s  Ruf”  (War  Cry)  ; and,  as 
it  was  Saturday  night  and  late,  turned  in  early  at 
Hotel  du  Nord. 

Sunday  morning  was  beautiful.  Many  people 
were  in  carriages  and  there  were  hundreds  of 
wheelers  out  for  a spin,  but  we  preferred  to  go  to 
church,  especially  as  there  was  no  wilderness  of 
pictures  and  statuary  to  be  visited.  As  Mount 
Blanc  towers  above  surrounding  mountains,  so  the 
glorious  cathedral  rises  above  all  the  other  edi- 
fices. Begun  in  the  thirteenth  century  and  fin- 
ished in  the  nineteenth,  it  is  an  illustration  of 
God’s  slowly  unfolding  plan  of  the  “house  not 
made  with  hands,”  in  the  human  heart.  The  ar- 
chitecture is  Gothic  and  it  is  built  in  the  form  of 
a cross.  There  are  old  and  rich  colored  win- 
dows ; the  heart  of  Mary  de  Medici  is  buried  here, 
and  the  tourist  sees  the  bones  of  three  kings,  and 
jewels  and  gold  are  in  richest  profusion.  The 
architect  is  unknown,  but  he  erected  a stone  stair 
on  which  the  devout  soul  climbs  to  heaven.  Its 
two  towers,  five  hundred  and  twelve  feet  high 
each,  are  fingers  pointing  to  the  sky  declaring 
that  God  has  a house  of  prayer  on  earth. 

Between  Switzerland  the  superb  and  this  Ger- 
many the  great  I might  make  points  of  compari- 
son and  contrast.  I will  just  say  that  “to  suckle 
fools  and  chronicle  small  beer”  was  never  in- 


HOLLAND  WINDMILLS  A Snap  Shot  From  a Car  Window 


LEIPZIG,  FRANKFORT,  THE  RHINE.  257 


tended  to  apply  to  the  Vaterland,  for  I found 
some  of  the  brainiest  scholars  and  biggest  steins 
I have  anywhere  met.  However,  all  is  well  that 
ends  well.  Germany  is  a great  country;  its  thrifty 
and  frugal  people  make  a great  nation ; whether 
it  be  army,  classics  or  commerce,  Emperor  Will- 
iam intends  that  his  nation  shall  be  in  the  fore- 
front rank  of  continental  and  world-wide  prog- 
ress. I have  only  one  criticism,  and  it  is  this, 
that  while  the  Germans  are  models  in  their  lives, 
they  are  very  loose  in  their  language  and  given 
to  grammatical  divorce  between  their  subjects 
and  predicates.  The  American  idea  that  they 
cut  up  a verb  and  plant  a part  of  it  here  and  a 
part  of  it  there,  and  then  throw  a shovelful  of 
big  words  between,  is  true,  and  takes  me  back  to 
my  boyhood  days.  It  was  in  Newark,  N.  J.  I 
had  been  excluded  from  four  public  schools  for 
“insubordination,”  and  as  a last  resort  was  sent 
to  a private  German  school.  Mr.  Bach  was  my 
teacher,  a scholarly,  elderly,  stiff  legged  German, 
who  used  a cane,  wore  a black  cap  on  a bald 
head,  had  a big  wart  on  his  nose,  a long  pipe  in 
his  mouth,  gray  whiskers  on  his  chin,  a high 
collar  whose  points  reached  to  his  ears,  a florid 
complexion  on  his  face,  and  carried  a horsewhip 
alternating  with  a harness  trace,  with  which  to 
arouse  my  flagging  spirits  when  I read  or  recited 


258 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  first  chapter  of  John’s  gospel.  He  was  earn- 
est, but  not  always  devout,  for  again  and  again 
he  interrupted  me  with  a cut  and  the  innocent 
curse,  “Du  verdamte.”  Since  that  happy  time 
years  have  passed  and  I have  enjoyed  the  gran- 
deur of  Goethe  and  the  sweetness  of  Schiller.  One 
word  I can  never  forget.  From  the  dense  forest 
of  the  German  dictionary  it  comes  like  a silver 
ribboned  stream  flowing  and  flashing  through 
my  mind.  I hear  it  with  Hope’s  music,  at  the 
front  door,  at  the  depot,  at  the  wharf,  and  at  the 
grave  echoing  on  to  the  eternal  Fatherland,  and 
it  is  this : “Auf  Wiedersehen.” 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  LOWLANDS  — HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 

If  “an  honest  confession  is  good  for  the  soul,” 
I want  to  begin  this  letter  on  Holland  by  saying 
that  I am  a Dutchman.  Paul  gloried  that  he  was 
a Roman  citizen,  I,  that  I am  an  American,  yet 
I take  a warrantable  pride  in  the  thought  that  on 
my  mother’s  side  my  ancestors  were  Hollanders ; 
that  I was  rocked  in  a Dutch  cradle;  sat  in  a 
Dutch  chair ; was  fed  from  a silver  spoon,  one 
of  a hundred  made  out  of  an  old  Dutch  silver 
tankard ; dressed  before  a Dutch  mirror,  and  that 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


259 


in  the  old  Dutch  Bible,  with  its  great  lids,  heavy 
clasps  and  curious  engravings  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  my  name  appears  in  orthodox  fashion 
spelled  “Gerlyn  Lansingh.”  Not  “Go-i^ightly.” 
Even  that  is  not  as  bad  as  calling  a little  boy 
“Voosten  Walbert  Schimmelpennick.”  I wonder 
if  Gorp  was  right  when  he  wrote  a book  in  Latin 
to  prove  that  Adam  and  Eve  spoke  Dutch  ? 

From  Cologne  we  came  by  train  through  a 
watery  country,  which  recalled  the  story  of  the 
deluge;  on  land  where  dogs  and  women  were 
hitched  to  carts  dragging  produce  to  market ; by 
hundreds  of  mills  which  stood  like  great  giants 
swinging  their  arms  in  defiance  at  our  entrance ; 
by  houses  with  sharp  pointed  roofs,  red  tiles,  and 
open  doors,  above  whose  polished  floors  scoured 
tinware  glistened  like  silver;  by  peasants  who 
stood  in  their  whitewashed  wooden  shoes,  with 
hats  like  wash  basins  on  their  heads,  and  bows 
on  the  side  like  the  wings  of  a bat,  to  Amsterdam. 
This  city  is  known  as  the  “Venice  of  the  North,” 
built  on  islands,  with  liquid  streets  and  spanned 
by  bridges  under  which  dart  no  graceful  gon- 
dolas, but  big  flat-boat  barges  manned  by 
burghers  with  baggy  breeches,  which  may  be 
converted  into  sails  when  the  wind  blows  a gale. 

My  hotel  was  a plain  brick  building,  with  stone 
trimmings  and  sideway  steps  to  the  front  door, 


26o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


for  lack  of  space  on  the  sidewalk.  The  streets 
are  narrow,  inviting  a dizzy  drunken  man  to 
death  by  drowning  in  the  canal.  Looking  out 
of  my  window  one  morning  I found  a beam  and 
pulley  gallows-like  affair  over  my  head.  On 
making  inquiry  I learned  it  was  not  for  capital 
punishment,  but  for  cleanly  purposes,  to  hoist 
merchandise  and  to  keep  out  the  muddy  feet  of 
the  butcher  and  baker. 

The  Dutchman  is  devout.  Here  is  “Oude” 
church  with  fine  windows,  big  organ,  and  splen- 
did monuments  to  celebrated  Dutchmen;  the 
“Niewe,”  where  kings  are  crowned,  and  where 
we  found  a fine  carved  pulpit  and  artistic  bronze 
castings  in  the  choir.  Mynheer  goes  to  church 
with  his  vrow,  leaves  her  at  the  door,  she  sitting 
in  the  body  of  the  church  alone,  he  occupying  a 
side  pew.  Such  a plan  might  weaken  the  attend- 
ance of  the  young  people,  but  it  might  also 
strengthen  their  attention  to  the  text  and  sermon. 
We  heard  no  great  music,  and  the  famous  organ 
of  St.  Bavon  is  at  Haarlem,  but  we  did  hear  the 
beautiful  chimes  of  church  bells. 

I went  to  a diamond  cutting  establishment, 
conducted  by  a Jewish  firm,  and  saw  them  take  a 
rough  stone,  cut  it,  polish  it,  until  it  was  fit  for  a 
monarch’s  crown,  and  learned  the  lesson  of  how 
the  value  and  brightness  of  human  character  is 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM.  261 

the  result  of  a process  prolonged  and  often  pain- 
ful. Some  of  my  friends  bought  souvenirs  for  a 
big  consideration  from  this  establishment.  I 
didn’t. 

The  Art  Museum  contains  masterpieces  of  the 
Flemish  and  Dutch  schools.  Rembrandt’s  “Night 
Guard”  and  Heist’s  “Banquet  of  the  Civic 
Guard,”  world  famed.  Other  works,  with  en- 
gravings, and  one  of  the  finest  collections  of  coins 
in  the  world  gave  us  hours  of  instructive  pleas- 
ure. Right  here  we  may  say  the  Dutch  are  not 
as  stupid  as  they  look,  when  we  remember  the 
University  of  Leyden,  founded  by  William  of 
Orange  as  a tribute  of  bravery  during  the  city’s 
siege ; Grotius,  the  great  publicist,  who  gave  re- 
form to  international  law;  Coster,  who  invented 
printing;  Metius  and  Jansen,  inventors  of  the 
telescope,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pendulum  clock, 
spectacles,  wood  engraving,  cheap  illustrated 
books,  reform  of  the  calendar  and  wearing  of 
linen  underclothing,  which  the  Dutchman  invent- 
en  and  introduced.  One  place  I visited  is  indeli- 
bly impressed.  It  was  the  “Screijerstoren,” 
known  as  the  Tower  of  Sorrow.  As  early  as 
1842  wives  and  sweethearts  said  good-bye  to 
their  husbands  and  lovers  who  were  to  sail  a six 
years’  voyage,  and  with  eyes  filled  with  tears, 


262 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


salter  than  the  ocean  knew,  watched  the  white- 
winged ships  fly  far  out  to  sea. 

All  aboard  for  Rotterdam!  Without  being 
profane,  one  might  say,  “Holland  has  more  dam 
towns  than  all  the  world.”  But  the  word  “dam” 
means  dam  or  dyke,  so  when  we  say  Amster, 
Rotter,  Schie,  we  mean  those  towns  built  on 
dykes,  the  only  way  to  build  anything  here.  By 
locks  which  were  built  to  inundate  and  so  flood 
out  the  enemy;  by  mills  which  pump  out  the 
marshes  and  furnish  power  for  grinding,  so  that 
a man  is  rich  according  to  the  number  of  mills 
he  owns;  by  hundreds  of  water  arteries  which 
frozen  in  winter  are  thoroughfares  for  pleasure 
and  marketing,  we  reached  Rotterdam.  We 
could  scarcely  see  the  town  because  of  the 
bridges,  masts  and  canal  boats. 

I met  men  here  with  baggy  trousers,  long 
stockings,  high  buttoned  jackets,  and  wooden 
shoes  which  clattered  everywhere;  women  with 
lace  caps  and  gold  and  silver  ornaments  on  their 
heads ; rainbow’-colored  vests,  and  underskirts 
which  they  are  said  to  wear  to  the  number  of  a 
dozen.  No  wonder  they  seem  to  be  weary  and 
full  of  sadness.  Men  were  smoking  everywhere 
and  all  the  time,  for  the  Dutchman  colors  not 
only  his  nose  but  his  pipe.  It  may  not  be  true 
in  Colorado  that  every  child  is  born  with  a silver 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


263 


spoon  in  its  mouth,  but  it  would  almost  seem  as 
if  every  man  here  was  born  puffing  a pipe.  The 
Dutchman  loves  his  tobacco  as  the  German  his 
beer,  and  seems  to  pursue  his  second  nature  habit 
without  any  great  injury  to  himself. 

Our  journey  to  The  Hague  was  through  acres 
of  red,  white  and  blue  hyacinths  and  jonquils. 
Holland  is  a paradise  of  flowers.  There 
is  a proverb  that,  “Men  make  their  fortune 
at  Rotterdam,  increase  it  at  Amsterdam,  and 
spend  it  at  The  Hague.”  We  came  under  the  last 
head.  The  Hague  is  the  capital,  and  gives  more 
evidence  of  land  and  aristocracy  than  we  had 
yet  seen.  We  visited  a beautiful  park  filled  with 
oaks  and  elms,  bearing  the  names  of  famus  citi- 
zens, and  found  a literal  Eden  of  birds,  flowers, 
trees  and  shrubs  bobbed  into  fantastic  shapes, 
with  nestling  villas,  including  the  summer  one  of 
the  Queen  Wilhelmina.  There  is  a fine  monu- 
ment erected  to  William  the  Silent,  the  George 
Washington  of  Holland.  He  was  Philip  II. ’s 
inveterate  foe,  and  because  the  Spaniard  could 
not  get  rid  of  him  any  other  way,  he  bribed  a 
man  to  assassinate  him — a common  Spanish 
trick. 

As  usual,  I met  a number  of  curious  customs. 
Horses  wearing  a wide  stool  on  their  hoof  to 
keep  out  of  the  mud;  sleds  with  oiled  runners 


264 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


used  in  summer;  Dutch  pink,  which  was  a gold 
yellow;  policemen  hobbling  around  in  wooden 
shoes,  making  more  noise  than  an  ox  cart ; under- 
takers fantastically  dressed,  whose  duty  it  was 
to  announce  the  sickness  or  death  of  a man  to  his 
near  friends ; the  birth  of  a girl  or  boy  baby,  told 
by  a white  or  red  pin-cushion  hanging  on  the 
door ; children  wearing  a padded  cushion  on  their 
head  surmounted  by  whalebone  to  keep  them 
from  a hard  fall.  As  if  this  were  not  enough,  I 
further  learned  that  the  main  entrance  to  the  pal- 
ace was  by  the  back  door;  that  girls  hired  their 
beaux  to  take  them  to  the  fair,  and  that  when 
they  wanted  to  marry,  they  sent  their  lover  a 
glove,  which,  with  us,  would  be  construed  into 
getting  the  mitten. 

Two  miles  from  The  Hague  is  Scheveningen, 
reached  after  a ride  through  a park  made  up  of 
aisles  of  trees.  This  seaside  resort  has  the  usual 
hotels,  crowds,  chairs  and  bathing  carts,  with  at- 
tendant music,  eating,  drinking,  dancing,  and 
flirting.  Dudes,  flirts  and  tourists  come  and  go, 
but  the  fishermen  and  women  stay  forever.  The 
women  are  taller  in  proportion  than  the  men,  and 
some  of  them  graceful  and  with  bright  faces  and 
hair  to  match  the  sunshine.  Others  look  sad  and 
worn,  and  it's  no  wonder  when  you  think  of  their 
endless  work  of  scrub,  scrub,  drench,  drench, 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


265 


deluge,  deluge.  If  “cleanliness  is  next  to  Godli- 
ness/’ Holland  is  nearest  heaven.  I venture  this 
in  opposition  to  Phillip  II.,  who  said  “Holland  is 
nearest  hell.”  Old  men  in  old  houses,  with  old 
faces,  in  old  clothes,  are  the  literal  “Toilers  of  the 
sea.”  In  this  spirit  they  keep  company  with  their 
Dutch  brothers  who  build  dykes,  water-roads, 
ship-canals,  magnificent  old  cities,  colleges, 
galleries,  churches,  parks,  factories,  herring  pack- 
eries  and  gin  shops.  The  Dutchman  is  artistic  as 
well  as  industrious.  “Picturesque  Holland”  is 
often  heard  in  art  talk,  and  that  because  of  the 
costumes  of  the  people,  their  poses,  landscapes, 
tools  and  houses,  with  their  interiors  which  make 
“atmosphere.”  Color,  atmosphere  and  fine  lines, 
so  necessary  to  the  truly  artistic  mind,  are  found 
here  in  such  abundance  that  many  medals  have 
been  awarded  for  Dutch  subjects  painted  by  Eng- 
lish and  by  French  artists.  To  the  charge  that 
the  Dutch  are  not  artistic  I submit  their  magnifi- 
cent picture  galleries,  in  which  Rembrandt,  Hals, 
Heist,  Dow,  Paul  Potter  and  Teniers  bear  wit- 
ness. The  average  critic  will  find  it  difficult  in 
art  matters  to  “beat  the  Dutch.” 

This  is  just  what  might  be  expected  of  de- 
scendants of  a nation  which  led  the  van  of  prog- 
ress in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  with  varied  in- 
telligent industries  in  the  providence  of  God  were 


266 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


driven  to  America  to  lay  the  foundation  of  our 
national  greatness.  The  Dutch  brought  the  ideas 
of  art  in  the  home,  science  for  the  multitude,  re- 
ligion for  the  masses,  and  government  for  the 
nation.  Dutch  influence  in  our  revolutionary 
and  constitutional  making  epochs  was  so  marked 
that  Franklin  admitted  the  obligation  and  wrote : 
“In  love  of  liberty  and  bravery  in  defense  of  it, 
Holland  has  been  our  great  example/’ 

In  respect  to  schools,  teachers,  churches,  min- 
isters, best  kind  of  laws,  written  ballot,  commun- 
ity of  freemen,  and  inextinguishable  love  of  lib- 
erty it  would  be  easy  to  prove  that  America  is 
only  a homeopathic  preparation  of  Dutch  stock. 

I found  that  the  educated  Dutchman  and  wo- 
man as  a rule  read  Dutch,  French,  English  and 
German,  and  often  spoke  them.  Foreigners  as  a 
rule  didn’t  care  to  learn  their  language,  so  the 
Hollander  learned  theirs.  At  an  industrial  book 
exhibit  Germany  was  represented  by  machinery, 
France  by  design  and  illustration,  and  Holland 
by  what  the  exhibition  was  founded  to  illustrate, 
namely  the  book.  The  Dutch  are  not  in  the  front 
rank  of  literary  producers,  yet  this  little  country 
the  size  of  New  Jersey  leads  the  world  in  propor- 
tion to  the  number  of  books  printed  within  her 
own  borders.  “A  little  corner  with  a little  book,” 
one  reads  on  the  portrait  of  the  Dutch  monk, 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


267 


Thomas  a Kempis,  who,  next  to  the  Bible,  has 
written  one  of  the  most  famous  religious  books, 
“Imitation  of  Christ.” 

To  these  characteristics  add  the  inherited  vir- 
tue of  bravery.  Recall  the  Burial  Riot,  when  wo- 
men and  children  formed  a mock  funeral  pro- 
cession to  protest  against  new  burial  laws;  Van 
Speyk,  who  blew  up  his  ship  and  himself  rather 
than  have  the  Belgians  capture  it ; Van  der  Werf, 
who  offered  his  body  to  his  starving  companions 
for  food  rather  than  surrender  to  the  Spaniards. 

This  is  the  type  of  man  England  is  trying  to 
beat.  Apart  from  the  theory  of  which  side  is 
right,  or  what  government  is  best  suited  for  the 
future  development  of  the  African  continent,  the 
fact  remains  that  the  whole  world  admires  the 
great  and  glorious  grit  of  the  Boers.  Kruger  is 
not  a gorilla,  but  a Bible,  liberty-loving  man ; the 
Boers  are  not  beasts,  but  men  of  commendable 
intelligence,  bravery  and  character,  though  they 
drink  Holland  gin  and  smoke  incessantly. 

In  their  struggle  for  the  last  three  years  the 
spirit  has  been  the  same  as  that  of  our  fathers 
in  the  War  of  the  Revolution.  The  circumstances 
may  be  different,  but  like  the  old  French  heroes, 
their  motto  is,  “The  old  guard  dies,  but  never 
surrenders.”  Out  of  the  night  in  Darkest  Africa 


268 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


may  the  light  of  the  truest  liberty,  equality  and 
fraternity  soon  dawn. 

Our  locomotive  drank  and  smoked  on  leav- 
ing Holland  and  whirled  us  through  fine  farms 
and  by  beautiful  little  towns.  The  country  is 
densely  populated ; Phillip  II.  spoke  of  its  numer- 
ous villages  as  one  large  town. 

Antwerp,  which  means  “on  the  wharf,”  is  a 
prosperous  city  whose  shores  are  lined  with 
ships  along  quays  build  by  Napoleon  I.  It  was 
at  one  time  the  most  splendid  city  in  Europe, 
with  its  palaces  and  cathedrals,  but  the  money- 
loving,  murderous  Spaniards  sacked  the  city  and 
in  three  days  destroyed  $6,000,000  of  property 
and  murdered  eight  thousand  men,  women  and 
children.  For  this  sin  and  the  expulsion  of  the 
Jews  and  Moors  from  her  territory,  “even  handed 
justice”  has  made  Spain  pay  the  utmost  farthing. 

The  visitor  is  shown  the  magnificent  equestrian 
monument  of  Leopold ; Reubens’  house  and  stat- 
ue, the  artist  whom  the  citizens  adore,  who  sways 
the  sceptre  of  the  brush  and  at  the  mention  of 
whose  name  the  face  of  the  dullest  Belgian  grows 
bright ; Matsy’s  well-curb  and  pictures  whose  love 
for  the  daughter  of  an  artist  made  him  change 
his  trade  and  learn  painting.  The  cathedral, 
seen  a long  time  before  we  reached  the  city, 
points  its  spired  finger  to  the  sky.  The  tower 


I 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


269 


is  four  hundred  and  three  feet,  and  this  is  the 
only  church  in  Europe  with  six  aisles;  there  is 
a chime  of  an  hundred  bells  in  its  spire,  a spire 
that  Napoleon  admired  and  compared  to  a piece 
of  Mechlin  lace.  It  has  a pulpit  of  fine  carved 
wood  representing  the  expulsion  of  Adam  and 
Eve  from  the  Garden ; Reubens’  “Elevation”  and 
“Descent”  from  the  cross,  and  the  “Assumption” 
painted  in  sixteen  days,  are  masterpieces  of 
countless  value. 

Brussels  is  Belgium’s  capitol,  a kind  of  vest 
pocket  edition  of  Paris,  with  substantial  build- 
ings, showy  windows,  stylish  people,  shaded 
boulevards  and  good  clean  walks.  Some  of  the 
show  places  are  the  Bird  market  opened  once  a 
week  with  all  varieties  of  the  feathered  tribe  for 
cash,  the  flower  market  opened  twice  a week,  a 
paradise  of  color  and  fragrance,  and  their  mer- 
chants industrious  and  happy  as  one  ever  sees. 
One  of  the  most  historic  buildings,  with  superb 
Gothic  architecture,  is  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  It  has 
a beautifully  ornamented  ceiling  and  rich  carved 
oak  furnishings,  while  hanging  on  the  wall  are 
pictures  of  William  the  Silent,  Grotius  and  Eg- 
mont. 

The  town  would  be  incomplete  without  a 
church  and  the  finest  is  St.  Gudule.  In  spite  of 
religious  influence  there  are  some  art  features 


2/0 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


in  Brussels  which  make  one  alone  or  in  company 
blush  for  shame. 

The  park  here  is  beautiful  and  unique,  colon- 
naded with  statues,  notably  those  of  Egmont  and 
Hoorn,  those  Netherland  heroes  who,  though 
loyal  to  Rome,  opposed  Phillip  IPs.  persecution 
and  were  accordingly  executed.  The  palace 
Royale  has  a fine  equestrian  statue  of  Godfrey  de 
Bouillon,  who,  on  this  very  spot,  in  1097,  raised 
the  ensign  of  the  cross  and  urged  his  fellows  to 
join  him  in  a crusade  to  Jerusalem  to  rescue  the 
Savior’s  sepulchre  from  the  Saracens  and  place 
the  cross  where  the  crescent  stood. 

The  Bourse  is  fine  within  and  without,  while 
the  Palace  of  Justice  costing  over  ten  millions 
of  dollars  is  as  magnificent  as  it  is  mammoth  and 
vies  in  its  way  with  any  similar  public  building 
in  our  country.  As  in  other  European  cities,  we 
find  an  historic  column  two  hundred  and  eighty- 
five  feet  high,  with  bronze  figures  at  the  corners 
of  the  pedestal  symbolizing  what  constitutes  Bel- 
gium’s greatness  and  ours,  namely,  liberty  of  the 
press,  education,  meeting  and  religion. 

War’s  havoc  and  dogs  have  been  let  slip  here 
and  in  the  surrounding  country  many  times. 
Who  does  not  recall  Byron’s  lines : “There  was 
a sound  of  revelry  by  night  and  Belgium’s  capital 
had  gathered  there  her  beauty  and  her  chivalry”  ? 


HOLLAND  AND  BELGIUM. 


271 


What  a tragedy  was  that  fifth  act,  and  to  come 
here  and  not  see  Waterloo  would  be  to  read  Ham- 
let and  leave  the  prince  out.  Next  to  Marathon, 
this  battle  field  most  impressed  me.  Its  Heroes’ 
Mound,  with  the  view  of  the  plain,  is  like  the 
tower  at  Gettysburg  and  Lookout  Mountain. 
The  world  knows  the  story  of  Napoleon  and 
Wellington  by  heart.  It  remembers  the  chateau 
Hougomont  against  which  the  French  forces 
vainly  hurled  themselves  all  day.  It  calls 
up  the  names  of  Grouchy,  and  Blucher.  Today 
nature  spreads  out  her  harvest  of  grass  and  flow- 
ers to  hide  forever  the  horrors  of  war,  “rider  and 
horse — friend,  foe — in  one  red  burial  blent.” 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

FROM  NICE  TO  MONACO. 

I wish  I were  an  artist  and  could  make  a can- 
vas large  and  glorious  enough  to  include  the 
wondrous  beauty  of  France.  We  came  to  this 
modern  paradise  from  Genoa.  At  Ventinglia, 
the  station  between  Italy  and  France,  the  custom 
officers  fiercely  fell  upon  us.  It  seemed  to  me 
they  exerted  themselves  in  their  attempt  to  usurp 
the  prerogatives  of  the  Almighty. 


272 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


We  reached  Nice  in  high  spirits.  I climbed 
on  the  bus  and  tipped  our  driver  to  race  to  the 
Hotel  Westminster. 

The  city  is  very  picturesque  with  the  high  lime- 
stone for  a background  and  the  little  Paglione 
river  to  the  Mediterranean  side  in  front.  Near 
by  were  vines  with  foliage  and  clusters  and  olive, 
orange  and  mulberry  trees  in  great  profusion. 
The  city  is  well  supplied  with  churches  for  all 
grades  of  faith ; with  theaters,  gardens,  prome- 
nades and  a crystal  palace  for  pleasure  seekers. 
Industrial  life  is  represented  in  factories  of  per- 
fumery, liquor,  oil,  soap,  furniture  and  leather. 
The  town  was  named  in  honor  of  a victory  once 
gained,  but,  like  a ball  of  string  in  a kitten’s 
frolic,  it  has  had  many  sudden  changes  and  ex- 
periences since.  Fortune  may  come  or  go  but 
its  fairy  land  of  plants  always  remain  and  they 
have  a carnival  of  flowers  as  at  Rome  in  which 
the  battle  and  bombardment  consist  of  sweet- 
meats and  flowers.  There  was  a fine  road  for  a 
spin  but  no  wheel  was  available  so  I went  to  the 
shore  where  the  mystic  fingers  of  the  waves  were 
writing  Elk  hieroglyphs  on  the  sand.  The  bath 
houses  were  empty  for  it  was  early  and  chilly,  but 
the  fishermen  were  hard  at  work  hauling  in  nets 
filled  with  sardines. 

Nice  is  just  what  its  letters  spell.  That  night 


FROM  NICE  TO  MONACO. 


273 


with  glare  of  gold,  red  of  rose,  and  cloud  o’er 
head  floating  to  sea  of  blue,  the  city  looked  like 
the  new  Jerusalem,  and,  with  another,  I sighed, 
‘To  think  the  sands  of  another  happy  day  have 
ebbed  away.” 

One  of  the  finest  roads,  begun  by  Napoleon  I 
as  a military  route  between  France  and  Italy,  is 
the  Cornice  road.  The  day  we  drove  over  was 
one  of  sunshine  and  peace.  It  led  us  through 
lemon,  palm  and  shade  trees,  as  well  as  olives 
many  years  old ; led  us  down  by  sapphire  bay, 
sandy  beach,  wave-worn  rock;  led  us  around 
vine-clad,  rose-festooned  walls ; led  us  high  up 
by  towers,  villages  and  castles  with  the  sea 
rippling  or  dashing  itself  against  bare  rocks.  No 
wonder  the  Greeks  and  Romans  loved  these 
shores  and  left  their  cities  and  loitered  here.  I 
could  myself,  forever  and  a day,  if  I had  the  com- 
pany I liked.  Scenery  and  solitude  are  all  right 
in  their  way  but  I agree  with  Cowper  in  approv- 
ing the  shrewd  remark  of  the  Irishman  who  said, 
“How  passing  sweet  is  solitude,  yet  give  me  still 
a friend  in  my  retreat,  to  whom  I ma>  whisper, 
‘Solitude  is  sweet/  ” 

I was  reminded  of  the  proverb,  “There’s  many 
a slip,”  on  our  return.  As  we  came  up  the 
hill  we  were  encountered  by  an  automobile 
whose  chaffeur  had  lost  control  of  the  machine. 


274 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Down  it  came,  our  driver  struck  his  horses  and 
we  pulled  out,  just  missing  its  hind  wheel  and 
grazing  the  umbrella  of  one  of  our  party.  The 
ladies  in  the  horseless  carriage  cried  out  with 
alarm  as  the  vehicle  was  headed  toward  a preci- 
pice over  which  they  would  have  made  the 
biggest  dash  of  their  lives,  but  fortunately  it  was 
steered  successfully  and  went  backward  against 
the  rocks. 

Another  window  into  this  heaven  of  climate 
and  scenery  is  Mentone,  fifteen  miles  from  Nice 
and  situated  on  a rocky  point  shaped  like  an 
amphitheater.  Here  as  everywhere  we  find  life’s 
comedy  and  tragedy,  men  and  women,  the 
players,  with  their  exits  and  entrances.  The  na- 
tives were  perched  on  rocky  heights  like  their 
Swiss  neighbors ; little  white  roads  lassoed  the 
hill  sides ; streets  were  dark  and  narrow  with 
suitable  places  here  and  there  for  a bandit  to 
relieve  one  of  any  detachable  valuables  he  might 
have.  Men  and  women  looked  careworn  and  sad 
but  the  little  people,  with  their  bright  dresses 
and  brighter  faces,  suggested  innocence  and  joy. 
I saw  crowds  of  beggars  blind,  or  with  feet  and 
arms  gone,  and  an  old  man  in  a cart  with  dogs 
at  his  feet  and  sides.  Public  washing  tubs  are 
numerous,  but  with  no  evidence  of  recent  use,  re- 
minding me  of  the  boy’s  statement  that  his  “fath- 


FROM  NICE  TO  MONACO. 


275 


! 


er  was  a Methodist  but  he  wasn’t  working  much 
at  it  now.”  Below,  by  the  sea  shore,  the  hotels 
were  filled  with  invalids  and  tired  foreigners  who 
had  come  here  for  a cure  or  rest  that  they  might 
not  need  the  rest  of  the  grave  so  soon.  The  cli- 
mate is  most  agreeable  in  winter  and  summer. 

Verdi,  the  great  composer,  rested  here,  or  tried 
to;  but  the  festive  organ-grinders  bothered  him 
half  to  death  day  and  night  by  snatches  of  “Ah, 
I have  Sighed  to  Rest  Me.”  The  great  musician 
found  relief  by  renting  a house  in  which  there 
was  a large  storeroom.  He  went  out  and  hired 
all  the  organs  in  the  town  for  the  season,  paying 
them  what  the  owners  would  have  made  if  they 
had  played,  and  took  the  offensive  instruments  to 
his  place  and  put  them  under  lock  and  key.  If 
there  is  no  music  in  a rest,  it  is  the  making  of 
music,  and  Verdi  received  inspiration  for  future 
work. 

That  afternoon  we  walked  under  olive  trees 
centuries  old ; visited  shops  where  the  wood  is 
made  into  souvenirs,  wandered  through  lemon, 
olive  and  pine  trees  for  the  squeeze,  press  and 
sighing  moods  of  commerce  and  the  “As  You 
Like  it”  of  human  caprice. 

Nine  miles  east  of  Nice,  surrounded  by  blue 
mountain  and  opalescent  Mediterranean,  is  the 
well-known  resort  of  Monaco  whose  beauty  of 


2 76 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


climate  and  situation  has  been  sung  from  the 
poet  Lucan  to  the  last  traveler.  The  town  is  on 
the  summit  of  a hill  nearly  two  hundred  feet 
above  the  shore,  and  surrounded  with  ramparts. 
Nature  furnished  the  site,  the  stone,  the  sea  and 
surroundings  and  giant  geraniums,  lemon,  palm 
and  eucalptus  trees  in  tropical  abundance.  Add 
to  this  what  man  has  done  with  parks  and  orna- 
ments, and  the  place  seems  nice  enough  to  be 
good. 

The  most  famous  or  infamous  thing  is  the 
Casino.  I saw  a fine  building ; I was  met  at  the 
door,  carefully  looked  over  by  an  official,  given 
a card  of  admission  and  entered  the  gambling 
hall,  where  I found  fourteen  tables  in  full  blast 
and  was  informed  that  I could  bet  even  or  odd 
anywhere  from  one  to  six  thousand  francs.  Not 
believing  in  the  ethics  of  the  game  and  knowing 
that  only  about  one  in  every  two  hundred  “broke 
the  bank  at  Monte  Carlo/’  I was  content  to  look 
on  while  detectives  near  by  watched  me  and  the 
other  visitors.  Men  and  women  were  staking 
their  all,  or  somebody  else’s,  on  the  turn  of  a 
wheel  or  card. 

Half  the  players  were  women.  They  were 
beautifully  dressed,  but  they  had  a blase  look 
which  the  brilliant  lights  overhead  could  not 
make  beautiful.  I learned  they  played  every  day 


FROM  NICE  TO  MONACO. 


277 


from  noon  to  midnight,  Sunday's  included.  The 
intense  excitement  of  their  faces  when  they  lost 
or  won  is  an  unforgotten  lesson.  I understand 
the  game  is  “honestly"  conducted.  Men  are  led 
on  until  the  percentage  is  in  favor  of  the  bank. 
Then  the  loser  goes  out  and  shoots  himself,  a 
thing  he  should  have  thought  of  before  he  went 
in.  The  Russians  are  said  to  be  the  heaviest 
players  and  following  them  the  French,  German, 
American  and  English  in  their  love  for  the  game. 
Unlike  our  cities,  the  inhabitants  are  denied  ac- 
cess to  the  table  and  are  exempt  from  all  taxes 
as  an  equivalent.  So  the  poor  people,  debarred 
from  playing,  because  of  moral  or  moneyed 
reasons,  are  denied  the  further  privilege  of  mak- 
ing false  returns  to  the  tax  collector.  The  Prince 
of  Monaco  rules  over  about  eight  square  miles. 
He  lives  in  an  old-time  looking  place  with  draw- 
bridge and  portcullis.  His  motto  is,  “La  roulette, 
la  source  de  ma  force."  Gambling  is  wrong  be- 
cause it  is  contrary  to  the  principles  of  mutual 
benefit  which  underlie  legitimate  transactions,  en- 
forcing an  idleness  which  breeds  vice  and  takes 
away  the  taste  for  simpler  pleasures. 

Wordsworth  said:  “Nature  never  did  betray 

the  heart  that  loved  her."  I am  sure  he  would 
have  fallen  in  love  with  France’s  beautiful  scenery 
of  cloud-capped  tower  and  hillside  waving  with 


278 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


wheat  and  corn ; embroidered  fields  and  flowers ; 
stately  trees,  streets  and  old  castles  mantled  with 
ivy ; clipped  hedges,  red  tiled  houses  and  snow- 
white  roads ; curious  villages,  peasants  working 
in  the  fields  and  all  in  the  light  of  sparkling  sun- 
shine, blue  sky  and  perfect  cleanliness. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PARIS  AND  THE  PARISIANS. 

Rabelais  said  of  the  Parisians,  “They  live  all 
their  lives  in  a barrel  and  only  look  out  of  the 
bung  hole.,,  Well,  I have  been  to  the  barrel 
and  looked  into  the  bung  and  find  Paris  a city 
bounded  on  the  north,  south,  east  and  west  by 
life,  levity,  luxury  and  love. 

I was  met  at  the  depot  by  a gentleman  in  uni- 
form, who  with  no  Niagara  manner,  called  a 
cabby  for  me,  and  was  driven  furiously  through 
crowded  streets,  over  which  people  struggled  to 
cross  at  intervals,  with  a little  platform  like  a 
city  of  refuge  between  the  curbs.  When  a man 
gets  knocked  down  or  run  over  he  is  arrested  for 
being  in  the  drivers’  way.  I learned  this  later, 
when  I tried  to  navigate  the  streets  and  had  lifted 
up  my  umbrella  and  voice  in  vain,  the  policemen 
crying,  “Celerite!” 


PARIS  AND  THE  PARISIANS 


270 


Paris  may  have  no  homes,  but  she  has  hotels, 
and  they  are  first-class  things.  Mine  was  Hotel 
de  Terminus,  central,  large  and  splendid  in  all 
its  appointments.  The  reading  room  offered  the 
coveted  English  magazines  and  best  of  all,  the 
Paris  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald;  the  din- 
ing room  was  filled  with  nervous,  moustached 
waiters  who  knew  all  your  wants  before  you 
could  say  “Jack  Robinson”  or  “Garcon in  the 
parlor  there  was  a kind  of  a ’phone  in  which, 
if  you  were  too  tired  to  go  out,  you  could  drop  a 
franc  in  the  slot  and  hear  Bernhardt  rave,  or 
Signor  roar. 

For  weeks  German  had  jolted  me  like  a flat 
wheel  over  a rough  mountain  road  and  I was 
prepared  to  have  the  French  language  give  me 
springs  and  rubber  tires  over  a macadam  avenue. 
It  is  a beautiful  language,  scientific,  epigram- 
matic, polished,  and  when  it  comes  to  sentiment, 
is  as  warm  as  the  fire  Prometheus  stole  from 
heaven.  For  practical  affairs,  if  you  can’t  speak 
it,  you  will  find  numerous  signs  on  different 
stores,  “Ici  on  parle  Anglais,”  but  I found  them 
a heartless  deception.  I went  repeatedly  for 
films,  stationery  and  other  articles,  but  the 
French-American  speaking  Englishman  had  al- 
ways just  gone  to  dinner  or  was  out  somewhere 
else.  As  a result  I was  put  out  again  and  again, 


28o 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


and  the  tragic  interest  of  the  clerks  and  my 
dialogue  and  gestures  always  filled  the  house,  but 
are  too  sad  to  relate. 

Impulsiveness  is  a French  characteristic. 
Human  nature  may  be  divided  into  twoparts,one 
in  general  and  French  in  particular,  combining 
the  caprices  and  contradictions  of  the  other,  and 
making  a distinct  species.  In  the  Dreyfus  affair 
there  was  no  doubt  of  government  corruption 
and  that  officers  for  a long  time  had  sold  out  state 
secrets,  but  the  mere  mention  of  the  name  “Drey- 
fus” set  the  Frenchmen  wild.  President  Loubet 
entered  the  ball  room  with  his  officials  and  re- 
ceived no  honor,  but  when  Marchon  and  Fashoda 
came  in  they  were  cheered,  the  band  played  and 
the  people  went  crazy.  I had  only  to  ask  the 
chambermaid  a simple  question  and  she  became 
nervously  attentive,  sweet  as  your  mother  and 
as  helpful  as  your  neighbor’s  best  girl. 

The  Exposition  was  a great  show.  I was 
whirled  around  the  movable  side- walk;  circum- 
navigated the  Great  Globe;  made  the  ascent  of 
the  Eiffel  tower  where  Babel  is  outdone  by  a 
'graceful  lace  work  of  iron  nine  hundred  and 
eighty-five  feet  high  with  theatrical  sittings  and 
room  for  one  thousand  people;  visited  the  Tro- 
cadero,  the  memorial  of  the  exposition  in  1878 
filled  with  trophies  of  art  and  science  and  with 


PARIS  AND  THE  PARISIANS. 


281 


minaret  towers  nearly  three  hundred  feet 
high  and  crescent  galleries  reminding  one  of  the 
Orient;  rambled  through  Old  Paris  reproduced, 
and  then  sought  rest  and  refreshment  in  the 
Swiss  village  outside,  one  of  the  most  realistic 
and  unique  exhibitions  of  the  whole  exposition. 

The  chef  d’ouvre  of  all  my  amusement  was  my 
attendance  at  the  Grand  Opera,  the  finest  theater 
in  Paris  or  anywhere  else  that  I know  of.  It  is 
situated  in  the  center  of  the  city  with  fine  sur- 
roundings ; surmounted  by  a dome  with  a regal 
coronet ; Apollo  plays  his  golden  harp ; its  famous 
staircase  is  made  of  solid  white  marble,  onyx 
balustrades,  jasper  banisters  and  matchless 
pedestals.  The  foyer  is  superbly  decorated  and 
is  the  place  where  wealth,  beauty  and  fashion 
walk  and  flirt  between  acts. 

I heard  Gounod’s  “Faust”  complete  in  score, 
orchestration  and  stage  setting.  The  great  com- 
poser himself  used  to  lead  here.  Some  of  his 
musicians  performed  that  night.  This  was  royal 
opera  in  name  and  in  deed. 

After  this  it  was  time  to  be  pious  and  go  to 
church,  and  we  did  go  the  next  day  to  the  La 
Madeleine  which  Napoleon  intended  for  a temple 
of  glory;  he  proposed  but  God  disposed  of  him 
at  Waterloo  and  the  original  church  plan  was 
carried  out.  It  is  one  of  the  best  specimens  of 


282 


TRA(^CS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

Greek  architecture  and  reminded  me  of  the 
Temple  of  Theseus  at  Athens. 

Later  we  went  to  St.  Denis  cathedral,  for 
centuries  the  burial  place  of  kings.  In  1793  the 
convention  decreed  that  the  royal  tombs  must 
go  and  a mad  crowd  acting  on  the  advice  battered 
down  Charlemagne’s  bronze  gates,  smashed 
stained  glass  windows,  desecrated  the  altars, 
overturned  statues  and  threw  royal  remains  in 
the  ditch  near  by  and  covered  them  over  with 
-lime.  For  twelve  days  this  sacrilege  was  carried 
on.  Later  the  former  beauty  was  restored  as  far 
as  possible  by  Napoleon  I. 

The  Pantheon,  or  St.  Genevieve,  was  intended 
by  the  convention  for  illustrious  men.  In  front 
there  is  a gigantic  bas-relief  of  Cuvier  and 
Fenelon,  while  in  the  crypt  beneath  lie  the  re- 
mains of  Voltaire  and  of  Rousseau.  The  church 
is  in  the  form  of  a Greek  cross  with  dome  in  the 
center,  and  the  walls  are  covered  with  Joan  of 
Arc  decorations.  At  Mont  Marte  we  attended 
the  church  called  the  Vow  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 
We  made  a pilgrimage  up  the  stairs  and  were  re- 
warded by  a magnificent  view  of  Paris  and  en- 
virons. The  vast  proportions  of  the  tower  and 
dome,  the  size  of  the  crypt  and  all  the  appoint- 
ments make  it  a most  marvelous  structure. 

Notre  Dame  is  the  most  historic,  most  famous 


PARIS  AND  THE:  PARISIANS. 


283 


and  most  visited.  It  is  situated  on  a little  island 
in  the  Seine  river.  Today  the  cross  replaces  the 
pagan  symbol  of  worship  of  a thousand  years 
ago.  What  a name  to  conjure  with.  Romans, 
Revolutionists,  Rationalists,  and  now  the  Re- 
public. It  is  a glorious  monument  of  Gothic 
architecture,  but  renowned  most  of  all  for  its  as- 
sociation with  the  life  and  .death,  the  honor  and 
disgrace  of  royal  and  plebeian  characters. 

A church  of  peculiar  interest  is  St.  Germain-’ 
l’Auxerrios,  from  which  tower,  Aug.  24,  1572, 
by  order  of  Charles  IX.,  the  bell  rang  for  the 
massacre  of  the  Protestants.  St.  Bartholomew 
is  not  forgotten. 

I found  Versailles  a stupid  town,  but  a splen- 
did trophy  of  Louis  XIV.  and XV.,  that  smart  set 
of  high  rollers  who  with  Maintenon  and  Pompa- 
dour lived  lives  not  advocated  in  the  Ten  Com- 
mandments. The  courtyard  and  statue  of  Louis 
XIV.  are  imposing ; the  building  is  a museum  of 
statues  and  paintings  illustrating  French  history 
and  glory. 

Here  one  sees  the  famous  Gallery  of  Battles 
with  its  busts  of  great  generals  and  those  gigan- 
tic historical  paintings  celebrating  French  vic- 
tories which  the  Parisian  idolizes  and  the  Ger- 
mans in  their  conquest  kindly  spared.  Petit 
Trianon,  near  by,  recalls  the  happy  life  of  the 


284  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

young  queen,  Marie  Antoinette,  who  romped 
and  rollicked  like  a child  in  the  home,  mill,  bou- 
doir and  dairy. 

I visited  St.  Germain-en-Laye,  the  summer  re- 
sort of  Paris,  thirteen  miles  from  the  city,  on  the 
bank  two  hundred  feet  above  the  Seine  river, 
with  a noble  forest  of  fifteen  thousand  acres  ad- 
jacent. Its  terrace  is  about  eight  thousand  feet 
by  one  hundred  wide,  dates  from  1672, 
and  is  beautified  by  many  lime  trees  over  a hun- 
dred years  old.  One  cannot  forget  the  fine  view 
and  promenade.  I went  into  the  old  castle  which 
is  now  a museum  of  national  antiquity,  and 
dined  in  the  Henry  IV.  pavillion,  now  used  as  a 
hotel,  in  which  place  Thiers  died.  The  city  is 
known  as  the  birthplace  of  Louis  XIV.,  Charles 
IX.  and  Margaret  of  Navarre. 

I left  all  this  hurriedly  to  make  a train  and 
as  badly  perplexed  as  the  French  priest  who  was 
approached  by  his  parishoner  who  said,  “Father, 
you  don’t  know  me?”  “No,”  replied  the  priest. 
“Well,  this  is  singular,”  said  the  man,  “seeing 
you  rendered  me  the  greatest  service  one  man 
could  render  another.  You  buried  my  wife.” 

French  morality  often  seems  to  be  a very 
elastic  thing,  a name  and  sometimes  not  even 
that.  Popular  balls  are  held  Saturday  night  un- 
til 6 o’clock  Sunday  morning,  when  the  gay  vo- 


PARIS  AND  THE  PARISIANS. 


285 


taries  drag  themselves  to  breakfast  and  sleep  all 
day. 

There  are  good  women  as  well  as  grisettes, 
handsome  as  well  as  homely,  and  when  it  comes 
to  ornament  they  all  dress.  Their  costumes  are 
dreams,  enchanting  all  eyes,  but  have  too  often 
been  planned  by  Circes  who  never  knew  the 
name  of  wife  and  who  try  to  hide  the  ravages 
of  age  and  dissipation  by  fine  clothes  and  the 
toilet  arts  of  powder,  pomatum  and  pompadour. 

But  there  is  brain  as  well  as  beauty.  Here  as 
well  as  elsewhere  woman  is  back  of  the  throne; 
she  has  often  governed  France,  and  the  Paris 
salon  has  always  been  a great  political  power. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE.* 

Paris  is  a synonym  for  pleasure.  I found  no 
relative  of  Mantilini  to  say  that  life  was  a “demd 
horrid  grind.”  The  French  are  not  contented, 
as  a French  traveler  said  the  Bostonians  were, 
with  “Thursday  evening  lecture  and  a prayer 
meeting.”  Napoleon  knew  and  took  advantage 
of  their  pleasure-loving  nature  when  he  said: 
“Gild  the  dome  of  the  Invalides.”  One  has  not 


286 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


far  to  go  to  find  entertainment ; cafes  bright  and 
rich  on  the  inside  and  on  the  forty-foot  sidewalk 
in  front  many  little  tables  where  hundreds  of 
men  and  women  drink  Medoc,  St.  Julien,  Bor- 
deaux and  absinthe  while  they  talk  and  visit  with 
each  other  and  watck  the  passing  show.  Cafes 
Chantants,  or  Folies  Bergere,  and  Moulin 
Rouge,  and  Maxims,  where  charms  strike  the 
eye  and  not  the  heart;  where  Plato’s  earthly 
Venus  is  in  evidence  and  between  whom  and  our 
American  women  we  must  erect  a cordon  sani- 
taire  if  De  Tocqueville’s  estimate  of  the  cause 
of  our  prosperity  is  to  remain  true,  “The  noble 
character  of  the  American  women.” 

Max  O’Rell,  who  spent  three  years  in  Amer- 
ica, says:  “The  most  interesting  woman  in  the 
world  is  the  American  woman.”  He  might  have 
added  with  equal  truth,  the  most  intelligent, 
modest  and  beautiful. 

Lack  of  one  of  these  American  characteristics 
led  to  an  episode  in  one  of  our  company’s  experi- 
ence. With  his  wife  he  attended  the  theater;  he 
went  out  between  acts  for  a drink.  Two  women 
came  and  sat  by  his  side  at  the  table,  said  “Bon 
soir,”  talked  French  and  sentiment  in  all  the 
dumb  languages  at  their  command.  He  said, 
“Du  vin?”  They  said  “Oui,”  and  he  ordered  two 
bottles.  After  a little  delay  the  waiter  came 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


287 


bringing  two  bottles  and  a liberal  lunch.  The 
gentleman  objected,  but  the  waiter  said  that  the 
women  had  ordered  it.  This  friendly  vis-a-vis 
cost  him  about  twenty  francs. 

The  automobile  was  the  “fast”  thing  in  Paris 
and  what  I saw  during  several  days  I will  give 
you  a bird’s  eye  view  of  in  a few  minutes.  With 
a guide,  who  knew  his  business  and  a Jehu  chaf- 
feur,  we  sped  like  the  Seine  or  the  insane 
through  Paris;  over  well  paved  and  wide  streets 
through  which  rolled  life  and  wealth;  by  side- 
walks with  no  unsightly  telegraph  poles;  build- 
ings uniform  in  height  so  that  one  does  his  own 
sky-scraping;  names  on  street  corners  in  white 
and  blue  enamel  (respectfully  submitted  to  our 
city  fathers);  news  stands  called  “kiosques,”  ar- 
tistic outside  and  informing  inside ; lamp  posts 
of  beautiful  decoration  which  a man  could  be 
pardoned  for  leaning  up  against  about  2 o’clock 
in  the  morning;  pedestrians,  wheels,  and  omni- 
busses with  no  crowd,  for  in  Paris  you  pay  your 
money  and  get  a seat,  and  when  the  bus  is  full 
you  meet  the  word  “’Complet.”  Now  we  sped 
through  street  Capacines  known  as  the  place  of 
artists  and  wealthy  bankers,  then  along  the  his- 
toric Rivoli  with  its  shops,  arcades  and  hotels 
through  which  flows  a stream  of  tourists  and 
shoppers.  We  stopped  long  enough  at  Bon 


288 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Marche  to  invest  in  a dozen  pairs  of  kid  gloves 
and  made  it  our  duty  to  try  them  on  once  in  or- 
der to  avoid  meeting  the  custom-house  duty  for 
importation.  A fresh  start  and  we  whirl  by  the 
garden  of  Monceau  formerly  associated  with 
Louis  Philippe,  now  the  aristocratic  quarter  of 
modern  Paris  with  its  park,  lake  colonnades  and 
soldier  lovers,  and  striking  statue  of  Guy  de 
Maupassant  and  the  mistress  whom  he  loved  and 
for  whom  he  dared  God  and  man.  Now  comes 
the  rendezvous  of  high  life,  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne, a kind  of  Central  park  with  trees,  foun- 
tains, lakes,  aristocratic  drives  in  the  morning, 
lovers  in  the  evening  and  nurses  looking  after 
bare  legged  and  beautiful,  well  dressed  little  boys 
and  girls  in  the  afternoon.  Near  by  was  Anna 
Gould’s  $4,000,000  palace  and  yet  some  people 
are  not  happy,  count  or  no  account. 

We  mixed  the  sunshine  of  this  with  a drive 
through  different  quarters;  to  the  French  mar- 
ket which,  like  the  one  in  New  Orleans, is  a real 
life  preserver,  the  Parisians’  daily  food  bill  being 
estimated  at  over  $6oo,ooo;then  to  the  morgue,  a 
death  preserver,  with  its  horror  of  unfortunates, 
“mad  from  life’s  history,  glad  to  death’s  mys- 
tery;” the  sewer,  which  Jean  Valjean  immortal- 
ized, conducts  not  only  the  drainage  but  is  used 
as  a passage  for  tubes  and  pipes.  The  Paris 


■Mi 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


289 


sewer  system  is  eight  hundred  miles  long  and  so 
clean  that  without  offense  to  nose  or  foot,  you 
may  make  a partial  trip  over  the  netting. 

“Allons,”  said  the  driver,  and  we  went  to  the 
Conciergerie  with  its  dungeon  once  occupied  by 
Marie  Antoinette;  then  to  the  guillotine,  keen, 
cruel  and  corrective.  But  there  was  something 
of  greater  interest  than  all  this  and  that  was  the 
site  of  the  bloody  Bastile,  a prison  of  despotism 
for  five  hundred  years,  which  the  outraged  people 
captured  and  destroyed.  Its  storming  is  cele- 
brated now  by  a great  annual  festival.  A huge 
shaft  has  been  erected,  surmounted  with  the 
gilded  figure  of  Liberty,  which  holds  a torch  in 
one  hand  and  a broken  chain  in  the  other.  Sure- 
ly the  world  does  move. 

A most  suggestive  place  is  the  cemetery  of 
Pere  la  Chaise — a city  of  the  dead  where  sleep 
in  marble  couches  the  brain  and  heart  of  France. 
The  grounds  are  filled  with  masterpieces  of 
sculpture.  The  most  frequented  grave  is  that  of 
Heloise  and  Abelard — a shrine  toward  which  all 
good  lovers  make  a religious  pilgrimage.  The 
estimate  of  these  two  people  varies  all  the  way 
between  the  blessing  of  Lamartine  and  the  curs- 
ing of  Mark  Twain.  Of  this,  at  least,  we  are 
sure,  they  are  dead — that  in  life  they  learned  the 
sad,  sweet  lesson  of  loving  “not  wise- 


290 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


ly  but  too  well,”  that  whether  they  lived  together 
or  were  separated  in  nunnery  or  monastery,  they 
were  one  in  spirit,  one  in  death,  in  one  grave 
now  and  eternity  has  given  them  one  home. 

We  could  not  omit  old  Paris  and  so  went  to 
the  Palais  Royal,  the  former  home  of  Cardinal 
Richelieu.  Like  birds  of  passage  we  flew  to 
Place  du  Carrousel  square  with  its  arch  of  tri- 
umph erected  by  Napoleon.  The  old  horses  of 
St.  Mark’s  of  Venice  once  adorned  it,  but  a 
change  of  fortune  took  them  back  to  the  Adriatic 
and  those  you  see  here  now  are  new.  The  Ven- 
dome  Column  commemorates  the  battle  of  Aus- 
terlitz.  It  is  made  of  bronze  from  captured  Ro- 
man and  Austrian  cannon  and  is  covered  from 
base  to  summit  with  figures,  illustrative  of  the 
French  army  on  the  march.  Napoleon’s  statue 
looks  down  from  the  top.  The  mad  Commune 
overturned  this  monument  but  it  was  set  up 
again  and  is  now  the  meeting  place  of  the  old 
soldiers  who,  with  citizens,  deck  it  with  flowers 
on  the  anniversary  of  certain  great  victories.  But 
the  most  magnificent  arch  in  Paris  or  Rome  is 
the  Arche  de  Triomphe  from  which  twelve  ave- 
nues radiate  as  the  points  of  a star  from  the 
center.  It  was  erected  in  memory  of  Napoleon’s 
victories.  There  are  medallions  with  the  name 
of  the  battles,  and  statuary  illustrative  of  the 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


291 


great  general’s  campaign.  I climbed  to  the 
height  of  the  arch,  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet, 
and  a vision  of  the  past  came  over  me.  O, 
mighty  dead  who  still  lives  in  the  love  and  life 
of  French  worshippers. 

Now  we  glide  by  statues  of  Moliere,  Joan  of 
Arc,  and  Triomphe  la  Republique,  eighty-two 
feet  high,  with  liberty,  equality  and  fraternity  at 
its  base  and  a lion  holding  a ballot  box;  by  the 
Palais  Justice  and  La  Bourse,  a financial  pan- 
demonium very  much  like  the  Board  of  Trade  in 
Chicago.  The  driver  stopped  long  enough  here 
to  take  a drink  and  light  a new  cigar  then  started 
us  for  Champs  Elysees.  This  two-mile  drive 
leads  one  over  Elysian  fields  filled  with  carriages, 
riders  and  thousands  of  pedestrians,  while  on 
either  side  are  cafes,  shade  trees,  lounging  seats, 
Punch  and  Judy  shows,  all  gay  by  day  and  glo- 
rious at  night  by  light. 

A place  of  sad  and  suggestive  interest  is  the 
garden  of  the  Tuileries.  Today  it  is  a place  of 
music  and  promenade.  One  vainly  looks  for  the 
palace  which  the  communists  mined  in  1871.  The 
spirit  which  destroyed  the  Parthenon,  the  Tem- 
ple of  Diana,  led  the  vandals  to  ruin  what  had 
been  a royal  residence  for  three  hundred  years 
and  especially  associated  with  the  leading  events 
of  Napoleon’s  life.  As  all  roads  lead  to  Rome 


292 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


so  we  traveled  to  Place  de  la  Concord,  the  for- 
mer scene  of  execution  of  many  kings  and  no- 
bles, but  now  a place  of  peace.  Two  colossal 
fountains  try  in  vain  to  wash  out  the  “damned” 
blood  spots;  the  obelisk  from  Luxor  looks  down 
in  the  silence  which  it  has  maintained  for  un- 
known centuries.  Bronze  shafts  raise  their  torch- 
es of  illumination  and  one  counts  around  this 
square  eight  great  statues  illustrative  of  promi- 
nent French  cities.  Instead  of  flowers  I noticed 
black  drapery  on  one  and  learned  it  was  for 
Strasburg  which  the  Germans  had  captured  in 
the  late  war.  France  will  never  forgive  or  for- 
get this  loss.  I was  the  repeated  guest  of  Mme. 
Wile  who  referred  to  it  with  feeling,  telling  me 
that  before  the  war  she  visited  Germany  every 
year,  but  since  their  miserable  theft  she  would 
not  set  foot  in  their  territory  or  let  them  have 
one  cent  of  her  money;  and  like  her  are  many 
other  loyal  French  women. 

If  you  tire  of  this  enumeration  you  must  re- 
member I was  tired,  too,  but  my  guide  and  driv- 
er urged  me  on,  and  even  then  there  are  many 
things  which  I saw  between  i and  3 a.  m.  day 
after  day  which  I shall  have  to  omit.  I went  to 
St.  Cloud,  a suburb  of  Paris  laid  out  as  a park, 
with  shade  and  cascades.  The  fountains  play 
twice  every  month  and  the  spectacle  is  attended 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


293 


by  thousands  of  enthusiastic  visitors.  The 
srand  chateau  was  destroyed  by  the  Prus- 
sians in  1870,  and  here  again  the  Frenchman  is 
inclined  to  omit  the  petition  “as  we  forgive  our 
debtors.” 

Faubourg  St.  Antoine  is  the  bowery  of  Paris. 
Here  the  tough  element  get  together.  They 
are  ready  for  anything  between  a row  and 
a revolution.  The  children  were  dirty,  the  wo- 
men looked  greasy  and  the  men  were  everything 
you  would  not  like  to  meet  alone  in  the  dark. 
What  a contrast  between  this  place  and  Sevres 
with  its  most  beautiful  chinaware  and  museum 
of  models  or  porcelain,  from  all  climes  and 
times;  or  Gobelin  with  its  tapestry  and  carpet 
and  famous  art  work  dating  from  the  fifteenth 
century  which  enabled  Mr.  G.  and  his  family  to 
make  millions  and  climb  to  political  preferment. 

I saw  the  parks,  cafes,  students,  artists,  fakirs, 
grisettes  and  model  Trilbys  of  the  Latin  Quar- 
ter. St.  Michael’s  Fountain  is  near  by,  which 
represents  St.  Michael  as  conquering  the  devil 
and  trampling  him  itnder  foot.  I found  some 
things  which  seemed  to  have  gotten  away  from 
him  or  he  had  not  had  time  to  subdue. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  human  nature  is  prac- 
tically the  same  everywhere.  If,  however,  Paris 
seems  worse  in  some  respects  than  other  places 


2Q4 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


it  is  an  illustration  of  the  law  of  demand  and 
supply.  Much  of  the  unspeakable  is  planned  for 
the  tourist  who  demands  it  and  is  willing  to  pay 
the  price. 

Moreover  the  social  atmosphere  is  altogether 
different.  If,  “Flirtation  is  love  in  water-colors’' 
then  Parisians  are  natural-born  artists.  They 
all  do  it,  but  so  innocently  and  naturally  and 
beautifully.  Face,  form  and  finery  are  attractive 
features.  Since  people  dress  so  much  to  please 
other  eyes  it  is  but  natural  that  they  should  make 
an  expose  of  shoes,  silks,  and  laces  which  would 
only  be  permissible  in  Chicago  on  a very  rainy 
day, — Boston  never. 

Lawrence  Sterne  in  his  “Sentimental  Jour- 
ney,” said,  “There  are  three  epochs  in  the  empire 
of  a French  woman — she  is  a coquette,  then 
Deist,  then  devotee.”  The  classification  still 
holds. 

Who  can  ever  forget  Vela’s  statue  of  Napo- 
leon, discrowned,  disowned  and  with  dying  fin- 
gers on  the  outrolled  map  of  Europe?  I came 
from  Versailles  by  Hugo’s  house,  the  dear  old 
immortal  man,  loved  next  to  Napoleon  by  both 
Les  Miserables  and  grandissimes.  At  the  gate- 
way of  Hotel  des  Invalides  I met  an  old  old 
soldier  who  bowed,  gave  me  a picture,  took  my 
franc  tip  and  ushered  me  beneath  a dome  three 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


295 


hundred  feet  high  gilded  like  the  sun.  Two  mill- 
ion dollars  for  one  man’s  sepulchre;  marble  floor 
and  roof,  magnificent  altar  between  which  and 
the  entrance  is  the  crypt  containing  the  sarcoph- 
agus of  red  porphyry  resting  on  a dark  green 
granite  pedestal  with  marble  mosaic  pavement  in 
the  form  of  a star  surrounded  by  names  of  great 
battles.  From  above,  in  soft  splendor,  fell  light 
of  blue,  gold  and  emerald;  surrounding  were 
bronze  funeral  lamps  and  twelve  marble  statues, 
of  which  the  late  De  Witt  Talmage  said, 
“One  with  a wreath  as  if  to  crown;  one  with  a 
pen  as  if  to  make  a record  for  the  ages;  one  with 
a key  as  if  to  open  the  celestial  gate  for  a de- 
parted spirit;  one  with  a trumpet  to  clear  the 
way  for  the  coming  of  a king.” 

“After  life’s  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well.,,  Who 
can  explain  this  sphinx  of  history,  as  First  Con- 
sul, Emperor,  then  defeated,  repudiated,  impris- 
oned at  Elba  and  chained  at  St.  Helena  like 
another  Prometheus  with  vultures  gnawing  his 
heart?  Reverently  I paused — then  silently  de- 
scended the  spiral  steps  leading  to  the  crypt’s  en- 
trance. On  the  right  and  left  were  the  tombs 
of  Duroc  and  Bertrand,  Napoleon’s  two  best 
friends.  Over  the  “N”  bronze  doors  I read  the 
words  he  dictated  at  St.  Helena,  “I  desire  that 
my  ashes  may  repose  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine 


296 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


among  the  French  people  whom  I loved  so  well/' 
That  they  loved  him  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
this  tomb  was  spared  by  the  vandal  communists 
for  whom  nothing  else  was  sacred. 

Paris  is  the  paradise  of  art : “Art,  the  counter- 
feit and  counterpart  of  nature.”  Of  more  price- 
less value  than  all  I have  enumerated,  were  the 
treasures  of  the  art  galleries.  The  Luxembourg 
is  filled  with  the  works  of  modern  painters  and 
sculptors  which  remain  here  for  ten  years  after 
the  death  of  the  artist,  then  the  finest  are  selected 
for  the  Louvre.  I found  a few  pictures  warm 
enough  to  make  fuel  unnecessary  in  December, 
and  the  garden  is  filled  with  the  statues  of  fa- 
mous women.  But  the  Louvre!  I wish  my  pen 
could  describe  what  I saw;  any  attempt  would 
be  foolish  as  to  “paint  a lily  or  add  a hue  to  the 
rainbow.”  Its  superb  Apollo  gallery  with  pic- 
tured ceiling  and  tapestried  portraits;  its  antiqui- 
ties from  all  times  and  places;  crown  and  sword 
of  Napoleon,  spur  of  Charlemagne,  gems  and 
regent  diamonds.  But  beyond  any  moneyed  val- 
ue is  Murillo’s  sublime  painting  entitled  the  “Im- 
maculate Conception,”  and  the  world  renowned 
Greek  statue  of  Venus  of  Melos.  Standing  by 
her  side,  I thought  of  the  poet  Heine  who,  tired 
and  sick  at  heart,  came  and  sat  at  the  feet  of  the 
statue.  He  says  she  appeared  to  sympathize  with 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


297 


him,  but  also  seemed  to  say:  “You  see  I have  no 
arms,  I cannot  help  you,”  Poor  Heine!  Poor 
human  heart.  Everywhere  found  with  its  un- 
helped hurt. 

L’ Amour  de  la  Paris?  A thousand  times  yes, 
and  thoroughly  enough  to  say  as  Othello  did  of 
Desdemona:  “Perdition  catch  my  soul,  but  I do 
love  thee,  and  when  I love  thee  not  chaos  is  come 
again.” 

Leaving  Paris  I was  put  in  a compartment  car 
with  four  Frenchmen.  It  was  8 p.  m.,  and  I was 
weary  of  sight-seeing  in  gay  Paree  by  sun  and 
gaslight.  No  train  boy  came  in  with  cracker- 
jack  or  gum  to  disturb  us.  I had  a peaceful  nap 
and  was  suddenly  startled  by  three  of  my  com- 
panions, who  were  talking  very  rapidly  and  mak- 
ing indescribable  gestures  with  their  hands  and 
arms.  “Mon  Dieu,”  frequently  entered  into  their 
remarks,  and  I supposed  they  were  pious  until 
they  added  some  profane  words  not  permissible 
in  clerical  composition.  They  finally  made  the 
guard  understand  they  wanted  to  get  out,  which 
they  did,  and  I was  left  with  one  companion. 

I dozed  again  and  waked,  and  looking  at  my 
watch,  found  it  was  about  time  for  the  train  to 
reach  Dieppe,  where  I was  to  take  the  steamer 
across  the  channel.  I said  Dieppe  and  the  man 
stared.  Encore,  Dieppe,  and  he  said,  “Non  est 


29& 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


ver,”  or  something  like  it,  which  put  me  in 
doubt.  I added,  London,  and  with  warmth  and 
repetition,  to  which  with  strange  force  and  ac- 
cent he  said:  “Impossible,  impossible!”  Here 

was  a pretty  state  of  affairs.  He  looked  sober 
and  sensible.  I must  have  appeared  like  a fool, 
and  I soon  found  out  that  I was,  for  I was  on  the 
wrong  train  and  should  have  changed  cars, 
where  my  three  excitable  friends  did,  instead  of 
which  I peacefully  slept  and  had  been  carried  in 
an  opposite  direction  many  miles  away.  What 
could  I do?  He  spoke  a little  English  and  I a 
little  French,  and  he  said  I was  bound  to  Havre. 
He  told  me  he  would  make  it  all  right  and  ex- 
plain matters  at  the  depot,  and  that  I could  take 
a train  next  day  and  reach  my  party  in  London 
twenty-four  hours  later.  I didn’t  sleep  any  more. 
He  continued  to  assure  me  of  his  protection,  and 
I gratefully  accepted  it,  with  the  mental  reser- 
vation that  I would  keep  my  eye  on  my  valise 
and  pocket-book.  After  midnight  we  pulled  into 
the  Havre  station. 

I was  taken  to  the  depot  master,  who  prom- 
ised me  that  without  extra  expense  I could  take 
the  early  train  next  morning  and  go  on  my  way 
rejoicing.  I tried  hard  to  understand  him,  and 
believe  him;  I had  to.  Then  my  chaperone  took 
me  to  the  hotel  opposite  the  depot.  He  pound- 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


299 


ed  the  door  and  yelled  and  a night-capped  head 
was  thrust  out  of  the  window.  My  case  was  ar- 
gued and  the  judgment  was  in  my  favor.  The 
landlord  came  down  in  decollette  at  both  ends  of 
his  robe  de  nuit  and  opened  the  door. 

After  saying  “Merci  Monsieur”  to  my  deliver- 
er I went  into  the  hotel,  through  narrow  halls, 
up  steep  stairs,  until  I knew  in  case  of  fire  or 
murder  I could  never  escape.  I was  shown  a 
room  in  which  there  were  two  beds,  one  of  them 
already  occupied  by  a fellow  who  sat  bolt  up- 
right as  I stumbled  through  the  door.  I said, 
‘‘Pardon,  Monsieur.” 

The  landlord  offered  a word  of  explanation 
and  I was  soon  under  a chaos  of  coarse  but  clean 
bed  clothes.  I am  sure  I slept  with  one  eye  open 
and  that  on  the  depot  clock  opposite,  which  I 
saw  from  my  window.  It  was  now  2 o’clock ; I’d 
dreamed  worse  than  if  I had  been  full  of  De- 
Quincey  opium,  jumped  up  at  4:30,  was  dressed 
by  5,  sneaked  out  without  waking  my  partner 
and  was  met  at  the  cafe  bar  by  the  landlord,  who 
bade  me  good  day  and  offered  me  a drink.  I told 
him  I was  hungry  and  not  thirsty.  He  gave  me 
the  best  he  had  and  I paid  him  the  best  of  prices 
and  went  over  to  the  depot.  It  was  three  hours 
before  train  time,  but  the  station  master  was 
there.  Fie  seemed  glad  to  see  me,  said  every- 


300 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


thing  was  all  right,  and  told  me  I had  some  timq 
for  sight-seeing.  I called  for  a hack,  had  the 
driver  show  me  the  town,  and  was  brought  back 
in  safety.  I paid  him,  but  I can  never  repay  the 
station  generalissimo  for  his  kindness.  If  I had 
been  his  brother,  or  sister,  or  some  one  else’s, 
or  had  owed  him  one  thousand  francs  and  he 
wanted  me  to  pay  it,  he  could  not  have  been 
more  considerate  or  kind.  In  any  other  country 
I would  have  been  considered  as  crazy  or  a can- 
didate for  jail  or  have  been  consigned  with  Judas 
to  some  other  place  where  blankets  were  unnec- 
essary. The  Frenchman  is  nothing  if  not  polite. 

I was  a pilgrim,  and  had  only  tar- 
ried but  a night,  yet  I rushed  around  enough  to 
see  the  arsenal,  bath-houses,  custom  office,  ship 
building  yards,  industrial  points  of  fishing,  mak- 
ing silk  and  lace,  and  to  learn  that  this  town  was 
in  the  fore  rank  as  an  export  point  and  place  for 
emigration.  In  the  near  distance  I saw  a statue 
and  found  that  it  was  Bernardin  St.  Pierre’s  and 
Havre  was  his  birthplace.  His  story,  “Paul 
and  Virginia,”  is  a household  classic.  Youth  and 
old  age  love  to  read  the  story  of  the  outcast  boy 
and  girl  who  grew  up  together  on  the  island, 
loved  and  were  true  to  each  other  in  spite  of  so- 
cial rank  till  death  in  the  ocean  storm  claimed 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


301 


Virginia,  and  Paul,  insane  with  grief  at  her  loss, 
soon  followed  her  to  the  other  shore. 

From  Havre  to  Rouen,  in  France,  is  about 
fifty  miles,  but  some  people  in  America  have 
found  it  only  a step,  if  not  synonymous.  This 
town  is  the  old  capital  of  Normandy,  a great 
French  city  of  export  and  import.  There  are 
bridges  and  boulevards  between  the  old  and  new 
town;  educational  and  philanthropic  institutions; 
fine  promenades  and  shade  trees;  Notre  Dame 
cathedral,  gate  of  the  great  clock  bigger  than 
grandfather’s  on  the  stair;  the  pulpit,  where  ev- 
ery year  a criminal  who  has  been  condemned  to 
death  comes  before  the  people,  lifts  up  the  shrine 
of  St.  Romain  and  receives  pardon.  The  statue 
of  Boieldieu,  the  composer  of  “Caliph  of  Bag- 
dad,” “Jean  du  Paris,”  is  found  on  a street  bear- 
ing his  name.  Of  great  and  ever  increasing  in- 
terest is  the  public  square  where  Joan  of  Arc 
was  burned  in  1431,  and  the  tower  which  bears 
her  name. 

After  much  trial  and  tribulation  I reached 
Dieppe.  “Still  swings  the  sea,  mist  shrouds  the 
mountain  and  thunder  bursts  on  cliffs  and 
cloud.”  Dieppe  is  a seaport  town  one  hundred 
and  twenty-five  miles  northwest  from  Paris,  sit- 
uated at  the  mouth  of  the  Arques  river,  which 
separates  the  main  part  of  the  town  on  the  West 


302 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


from  Pollett  on  the  East.  The  town  suffered 
from  the  Edict  of  Nantes  and  later  by  bombard- 
ment from  the  Dutch  and  English.  Today  it 
boasts  ship  yards,  a good  harbor,  where  I saw  a 
huge  cross  and  statue  of  the  Virgin  for  the  pro- 
tection of  those  who  embark  to  cross  the  English 
channel  for  New  Haven  on  the  English  side. 
There  are  rope  and  barrel  factories,  shops  where 
good  watches  are  made,  and  I saw  skilled  work- 
ers in  ivory  and  bone,  who  sustained  the  reputa- 
tion of  their  ancestors  in  this  art  work  from  the 
fifteenth  century.  I visited  St.  Jacques  church 
and  then  walked  the  long  street  along  the  shore 
for  more  than  a mile.  It  ends  at  the  Chalk  Cliff, 
on  which  there  is  a fifteenth  century  castle  now 
used  as  a barracks.  In  season  it  is  the  fashion- 
able promenade,  and  for  years  this  point  and 
near  place  have  been  stylish  watering  and  bath- 
ing places.  It  was  early  in  the  season,  but  I 
promenaded  so  much  without  my  guide  that  I 
wore  out  my  patience  and  my  soles ; stumbled 
into  a shoe  shop,  where  the  keeper  fixed  me  up 
with  leather  half  an  inch  thick,  spiked  together 
with  hob  nails  which  would  have  insured  me  the 
first  prize  for  anything  or  anybody  I had  jumped 
on.  At  the  beach  I met  a peasant  girl  with  a 
basket  strapped  to  her  shoulders,  carrying  stones 
and  pebbles  the  size  of  your  hand  for  the  new 


THE  LAST  OF  FRANCE. 


303 


town  road.  The  sun  was  warm,  the  pack  was 
heavy  and  the  sand  was  deep,  but  there  was  no 
complaint.  She  was  a picture,  and  I wanted 
one,  and  when  I levelled  my  kodak  she 
had  been  there  before  and  posed  as  an  art  sub- 
ject. She  smiled;  I gave  her  a franc;  she  went 
her  way  and  I mine.  Like  her  peasant  mother 
and  sisters,  she  was  a worker.  In  America  wo- 
man is  often  sheltered  like  a hot-house  plant. 
She  becomes  at  times  '‘the  fascinating  lazzaroni 
of  the  parlor  and  boudoir,”  having  a kind  of  con- 
tempt for  manual  usefulness.  On  the  Continent 
it  is  different.  Les  messieurs  in  an  unknightly 
way  occupy  chairs  and  sit  around  the  stove,  while 
their  French  sisters  look  out  for  themselves. 

This  to  an  American  is  bad  taste  and  unpar- 
donable, but  it  suggests  that  in  France  at  least 
women  have  personality  and  feel  they  are  to  do 
some  of  the  world’s  work.  It  is  hideous  to  see 
the  peasant  women  working  with  the  shovel  and 
pick  and  harnessed  to  a mule  with  a plow  which 
her  husband  drives.  They  may  not  all  be  Venus 
de  Milos  but  some  manual  labor  would  give 
them  fine  arms  and  busts  instead  of  a wad  of 
cotton  batting  with  a pair  of  bones  hanging  at 
their  sides.  Such  independence  in  the  home 
would"  do  much  toward  solving  the  American 
servant  girl  question  and  removing  the  objec- 


304 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


tion  which  the  poor  man  urges  when  he  says, 
‘T  can’t  afford  to  get  married  and  keep  house 
too.”  Pat  w?as  wiser;  when  asked  if  he  could  sup- 
port himself,  he  replied : “No,  but  I’ll  get  mar' 
ried  and  Biddy  will  help  me.” 

France  is  indeed  a most  beautiful  country  and 
in  journeying  over  the  points  of  its  compass  I’ve 
learned  what  Macaulay  meant  when  he  said, 
“The  real  use  of  traveling  and  of  studying  his- 
tory is  to  keep  men  from  being  what  Sam  Daw- 
son was  in  fiction  and  Samuel  Johnson  in  real- 
ity.” 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 

Beg  pawdon,but  don’t  cher  know  the  blawsted 
English  channel  was  as  smooth  as  a confidence 
man  w'hen  I crossed  it.  New  Haven,  England, 
loomed  up  with  its  tw^o  hundred  feet  high  cliffs 
and  fortified  Castle  Hill  all  sun-kissed  with 
glory.  After  the  custom  house  officers  had  held 
me  up  and  found  nothing,  I climbed  the 
side  door  of  a queer  looking  train  writh  a dummy 
looking  engine  that  rolled  as  if  it  had  wheels  in 
its  head,  and  everywhere  else,  to  make  the  fifty- 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


305 


six  miles  to  the  metropolis.  Brighton  was  only 
eight  miles  distant,  the  fashionable  watering 
place,  where  F.  W.  Robertson  used  to  preach. 
Though  dead,  he  still  speaks  through  the  many 
ministers  who  work  off  his  superb  sermons  in 
whole  or  part  every  Sunday. 

I was  driven  from  the  depot  in  a hansom  to 
the  splendid  St.  Ermine’s  hotel.  I said,  with 
Falstaff,  “Shall  I not  take  mine  ease  in  mine 
inn?”  So  I rang  for  hot  water,  and  when  the 
buxom  maid  had  left  it  at  the  door,  I said, 
“Thanks,”  and  after  a hasty  toilet,  with  visions 
of  roast  beef,  plum  pudding  and  old  port,  I hur- 
ried down  to  breakfast  to  learn  the  wide  differ- 
ence between  French  and  English  cooking. 

The  weather  was  rainy,  raw,  foggy  and  sooty; 
not  vernal  like  Palestine,  or  voluptuous  like  Italy 
but  like  London  weather  itself,  beastly  and  nasty. 
However,  this  was  just  the  kind  of  an  in-door  day 
for  sightseeing.  I called  a cabby,  a big,  fat,  red- 
nosed man,  full  of  ale  and  facts,  gave  him  a tip 
and  off  went  his  mouth  and  horse;  he  discoursed 
on  the  city’s  roads,  good  walks,  efficient  police 
and  noted  objects  of  passing  interest,  all  the  time 
driving  through  crowds,  grazing  curbs,  brushing 
wheels  and  popping  flies  from  off  his  horse’s  ear 
in  a wonderful  way. 

I visited  a number  of  museums,  notably  the 


306  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

South  Kensington,  with  its  fine  building  filled 
with  articles  useful  and  ornamental,  ancient  and 
modern,  and  collection  of  paintings,  statuary  and 
things  which  make  a connossieur  liable  to  forget 
the  commandment  against  covetousness. 

Then  came  the  world-famed  British  Museum, 
England’s  most  priceless  possession,  with  its 
manuscripts  and  books,  prints  and  drawings, 
coins,  and  medals,  Babylonish,  Egyptian,  Roman 
and  Greek  antiquities.  The  Elgin  marbles  which 
his  lordship  had  “conveyed”  from  the  Parthe- 
non I saw  in  all  their  beauty.  At  Athens  I felt 
outraged  at  Elgin’s  theft  and  that  the  poor 
Greeks  had  only  plaster  casts  of  the  originals, 
but  here  the  marbles  are  safe  and  sound  and  any 
Athenian  may  come  and  “frieze”  himself  to  his 
heart’s  content. 

“Lost  in  London”  I had  seen  in  America,  but 
it  was  no  play  joke  here;  I don’t  mean  the  ex- 
perience I had  one  night  at  Seven  Dials,  but  the 
feeling  of  isolation  and  desolation  in  a great, 
strange  crowd.  When  DeQuincey  entered  Lon- 
don he  felt  like  a wave  in  the  Atlantic  or  a plant 
in  a forest;  really,  this  “mask  of  maniacs  and 
pageant  of  phantoms”  affected  me  quite  the 
same.  Dear  old  London,  older  than  ten  thou- 
sand years,  how  thy  eight  millions  pour  down 
streets  and  alleys,  by  Charing  Cross  hotel,  and 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


307 


out  into  the  Strand,  beating  me  against  Eleanor 
Cross,  that  soot  and  smoke-grimed  marble  block, 
erected  to  the  memory  of  Edward  I/s  wife,  that 
rare  woman  who  possessed  the  unusual  com- 
bination of  goodness  and  beauty. 

One  morning  I went  with  my  friend  to  Temple 
Bar,  not  so  much  for  a drink  as  to  follow  the 
example  of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  used  to  come  here 
and  amuse  himself  by  looking  at  and  studying 
the  crowds  of  people.  The  bar  has  given  way  to 
a memorial  with  a statue  of  royalty  and  the  devil 
of  a dragon  on  top;  I was  a little  surprised  at 
first,  but  found  him  on  top  in  so  many  other 
places  that  I thought  it  must  be  all  right.  Tem- 
ple Bar,  you  know,  was  the  dividing  line  between 
the  English  sovereigns’  and  lord  mayor’s  do- 
main, a kind  of  patrol  limit.  The  king  had  to 
ask  permission  to  visit  the  town,  after  which 
“ma  lawd”  mayor  gave  him  the  keys  and  told 
him  to  help  himself,  a custom  we  are  familiar 
with  on  the  occasion  of  Elks  and  other  religious 
convocations  in  our  country. 

Near  by  I found  many  historical,  literary 
haunts  to  which  great  and  good  men  naturallv 
gravitated,  as  the  wise  men  of  Greece  did  to 
Athens  and  the  up-to-date  men  do  now  from  St. 
Paul  to  Minneapolis.  After  a swift  tramp  to 
Fleet  street,  to  see  Newspaper  Row,  a visit  to 


308 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  haunts  of  Milton,  Goldsmith,  Dickens,  and 
some  of  the  other  “literary  fellers”  I went  with 
Irving  in  his  Sketch  Book  to  “Little  Britain” 
where  the  people  religiously  ate  pancakes  on 
Shrove  Tuesday,  hot-cross  buns  on  Good  Fri- 
day, roast  goose  at  Michaelmas,  sent  love  letters 
on  St.  Valentine’s  day,  burned  the  Pope  on  No- 
vember 5th  and  kissed  all  the  girls  under  the 
mistletoe  on  Christmas. 

I could  give  you  a “tedious  brief  account”  of 
the  bridges  across  the  Thames,  notably  London 
Bridge.  This  bridge  is  in  no  danger  of  “falling 
down”  with  the  $8,000,000  invested  in  its  con- 
struction and  sentinel  lamp  posts  along  its  sides, 
cast  from  cannon  captured  from  the  French  in 
Spain.  The  tide  of  humanity  pours  over  it  as  the 
Thames  does  under  it.  Cock  Lane  Ghosts, 
Dames  Quickly,  Boars’  Head  bums,  Mother 
Shiptons,  Punch  and  Judies,  Jarley  figures,  Bill- 
ing’s Gates  slang-whangers,  Bill  Sykes  bullies, 
frail  feminines,  doctors,  lawyers,  merchants  and 
thieves,  walking,  driving  or  jammed  in  or  on 
busses  all  plastered  over  with  ads  of  food,  cloth- 
ing, or  drink  so  that  the  stranger  can  hardly 
read  the  name  of  his  destination. 

East  End  is  London’s  “hub  of  hell,”  a “Bridge 
of  Sighs”  over  which  helpless  misery  travels 
whither  God  only  knows.  I went  with  police  es- 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


309 


cort  and  needed  it  more  than  in  any  other  slum- 
ming tour  I had  ever  made.  Gin  shops,  girls  and 
old  women  drunk,  men’s  gambling  hells  and 
prostitutes’  pandemonium ! Oh  the  wretchedness, 
poverty,  disease,  squalor,  little  men  and  women 
with  souls  already  filled  with  graves  from  which 
sad  skeletons  rose;  all  those  and  more,  not  sim- 
ply to  wonder  at  and  weep  over  but  to  work  for 
as  London  does,  giving  more  in  charity  in  pro- 
portion to  its  population  than  any  other  city  on 
the  continent. 

In  his  gospel  for  the  poor,  Charles  H.  Spur- 
geon, the  great  benefactor  and  philanthropist, 
England’s  real  “Prime  Minister,”  found  that, 
“the  way  to  God  is  by  the  road  of  man.” 

London  takes  great  pride  in  her  palaces  and 
parks;  St.  James’  park  with  foliage  and  lake  for 
saints  and  sinner;  Kensington  gardens  with 
plants,  walks  and  trees,  where  without  any  pro- 
hibitory clause  you  may  go  to  grass  like  Nebu- 
chadnezzar; Hyde  Park,  best  of  all,  with  its  fine 
gateways  and  marble  arch  intended  as  a monu- 
ment to  Nelson,  and  grass,  flowers,  trees,  Ser- 
pentine Lake,  and  Rotten  Row,  alive  with  riders 
and  walks  filled  with  people  of  all  climes  and 
conditions  who  in  fashion  and  beauty  come  in 
crowds. 

In  London,  as  in  Paris,  you  may  find  any  kind 


3io 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


of  pleasure  you  please;  concert  halls,  dance 
houses,  circuses,  chambers  of  horrors,  theaters 
of  drama  and  farce  and  all  kinds  of  variety 
shows  far  removed  in  spirit  from  the  time  when 
holy  play  and  representations  of  miracles  were 
performed.  English  bar  maids  are  greatly  and 
grossly  in  evidence.  London  seems  to  have  the 
unique  distinction  of  having  thousands  of  these 
girls  who  “make  destruction  please ;”  girls  who 
will  ogle,  flirt,  tell  off-color  stories,  drink 
ale  familiarly  and  profusely  with  you  and  prove 
how  much  worse  a bad  woman  is  than  a bad 
man  because  she  falls  from  a greater  height. 

The  National  Gallery  of  painting  on  Trafalgar 
Square  possesses  a fine  exhibit.  I recognized 
specimens  by  the  old  masters  whom  I had  been 
introduced  to  in  Italy  and  I further  met  the 
best  of  the  English  school.  The  Turner  collec- 
tion is  superb.  What  an  artist,  subject  and 
treatment!  I saw  his  Venetian  scenes  with  their 
rose,  white,  emerald,  and  sapphire,  and  admired 
his  love  of  brilliant  color  and  light  which  made 
him  matchless.  To  think  any  one  should  say, 
“Turner’s  pictures  look  like  a tortoise-shell  cat 
having  a fit  on  a platter  of  tomatoes.” 

One  of  the  most  striking  things  is  a London 
Sunday;  Babel  is  then  quiet,  shops  are  shut, 
streets  deserted,  trains  and  busses  run  at  longer 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


3 ii 

intervals,  most  of  the  restaurants  are  closed, 
and  your  ears  are  not  bombarded  with  “morn- 
ing paper.”  * The  churches  are  full  of  worship- 
pers ; royalty  doesn’t  attend  church  very  much, 
and  then  privately,  but  the  many  go;  some  to 
Ritualistic  and  others  to  Dissenting  churches, 
in  both  of  which  one  finds  the  spirit  of  rever- 
ence, and  obedience  for  law,  human  and  divine, 
which  we  seem  to  lack  in  America. 

England  isn’t  as  much  on  church  architecture 
as  Italy ; St.  Paul’s  is  imposing  for  strength  and 
simplicity,  but  without  and  within  it  is  a great 
disappointment.  The  fine  dome  leads  you  to 
expect  marbles,  mosaics,  altars  and  windows 
like  the  cathedrals  of  the  continent,  but  you  see 
dust,  fog,  grimy  walls  and  semi-nude  memorial 
statues  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  other  grave  celebri- 
ties. I saw  the  fine  thought  and  epitaph  con- 
cerning the  architect,  Christopher  Wren:  “If 

you  seek  his  monument  look  around  you.”  If 
Wren’s  plans  had  been  carried  out  for  St.  Paul’s 
interior  decoration,  it  would  have  been  far  bet- 
ter for  him  and  us.  I don’t  suppose  Nelson  and 
the  Duke  of  Wellington,  who  lie  here,  care 
very  much  about  their  aesthetic  surroundings, 
but  when  it  comes  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
J.  M.  Turner,  those  great  artists,  it  seems  to  me 
they  would  “kick”  if  they  could. 

Westminster  Abbey  is  far  different,  and  I 


312 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


can’t  just  see  why  Heine  gave  the  sexton  a shil- 
ling and  said  he  would  have  given  him  more 
if  the  “collection”  had  been  more  complete.  Re- 
call its  age  back  into  1000,  its  splendid  Gothic 
architecture,  aisles  and  Rose  windows,  its  power- 
ful memories,  and  would  you  refuse  a bust  there 
if  they  paid  for  it  and  insisted  on  your  having  it? 
It  is  a pile  of  “mournful  magnificence,”  but  it 
attracted  me  many  times  with  its  service,  music, 
coronation-chair,  shrines,  sepulchres,  effigies, 
inscriptions  of  kings,  heroes,  statesmen,  philan- 
thropists and  poets,  including  our  own  Longfel- 
low. The  late  Dean  Stanley  had  reason  to  value 
the  abbey  and  regard  it  as  “a  religious  national 
and  liberal  institution.”  Such  it  is,  and  I’d  like 
to  try  my  hand  at  a worthy  description  of  this 
historic  pile  had  not  Washington  Irving  already 
done  it. 

Because  Mr.  Wren’s  plans  were  not  adopted 
in  laying  out  the  streets  of  London  after  the 
big  fire,  they  outrival  Boston;  but  this  makes 
them  more  interesting  in  a way,  for  like  Mi- 
cawber  you  are  always  expecting  something  to 
“turn  up”  and  you  find  yourself  turned  at  the 
wrong  place. 

I strolled  through  swell  Regent  and  Oxford 
streets,  peeked  in  Piccadilly,  promenaded  in 
Pall  Mall,  bought  a shirt  in  Thread-needle,  took 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


3D 


in  Ludgate’s  circus  and  lounged  on  Thames 
Embankment  and  Victoria  street.  Since  Lon- 
don has  one  thousand  miles  of  streets,  there 
were  some  I didn’t  have  time  to  visit. 

I did  drive  to  Lambeth  Palace,  along  the  Vic- 
toria Embankment  with  its  walk,  trees,  and  ob- 
elisk, and  by  the  side  of  the  Thames  more  sig- 
nificant today  than  Nile  and  Tiber  in  its  wide 
influence.  I visited  the  houses  of  parliament, 
a pile  of  fine  Gothic  extending  one  thousand 
feet  along  the  river’s  bank.  Bright,  Disraeli, 
Gladstone!  What  names  to  conjure  with!  Of 
more  interest  to  me  than  the  Victoria  tower, 
through  which  the  queen  entered  parliament, 
or  Clock  tower  with  its  bar  steel  minute-hand 
twelve  feet  long,  or  Big  Ben  with  its  thirteen 
ton  bell  bang,  is  the  idea  of  parliament,  the  dec- 
laration of  the  truth,  not  only  of  the  divine  right 
of  kings  but  the  right  divine  of  the  people. 

Of  the  many  places  of  interest,  I can  only  sug- 
gest a few,  though  I didn’t  think  I ever  felt  like 
the  traveler  who  said,  “I  am  sorry  I didn’t  go 
with  you,  for  then  I might  have  said,  I’d  been 
there.”  Trafalgar  Square  is  to  London  what 
Place  de  la  Concord  is  to  Paris.  The  Nelson 
Column,  granite  fluted,  flanked  by  Landseer’s  big 
bronze  lions,  rises  proudly  above  the  London  the 
great  admiral  made  secure  in  1805,  when  he 


3*4 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


blocked  the  little  game  of  France  and  Spain  who 
were  attempting  to  invade  England.  His  words, 
“England  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,”  still 
thrill  every  Britisher’s  heart. 

Leaving  this  statue  and  that  of  the  soldierly 
Gordon,  I drove  to  the  Albert  Memorial,  which 
cabby  in  formed  me  was  “a  statue  as  is  a stat- 
ue.” Albert  is  remembered  as  the  good  Prince 
Consort  of  Victoria.  Theirs  was  a love  match 
and  marriage.  He  was  a man  who  loved  Eng- 
land, and  whom  England  cherishes  as  good  and 
great.  He  was  devoted  to  art  and  science  and 
with  John  Bright  was  a firm  upholder  of  the 
Union  cause  in  the  Civil  war.  Granite  steps 
lead  to  a pedestal  whose  corners  have  statuary 
of  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa;  to  a base  with  one 
hundred  and  sixty-nine  life-size  marble  statues 
of  the  great  geniuses  from  the  world’s  earliest 
history;  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  above 
rises  the  glittering  Gothic  spire,  surmounted  by 
a golden  cross,  while  under  this  canopy  stands 
a gilded  bronze  statue  of  Prince  Albert,  fifteen 
feet  high. 

One  day  after  an  underground  ride  in  a cham- 
ber of  horrors  with  smoke,  soot  and  smell  that 
made  Dante’s  hell  a desirable  station  to  change 
cars  at,  I visited  the  famous  London  Tower;  it’s 
the  English  Bastile,  covers  twenty-six  acres  and 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


315 


many  more  broken  hearts,  and  goes  back  to 
William  the  Conqueror’s  time,  1078;  its  White, 
Bloody,  Middle,  Bell  and  Beauchamp  towers 
“could  a tale  unfold”  which  would  make  you 
think  the  furnace  fire  had  gone  out  in  January. 
It  is  full  of  the  story  of  despair  and  death;  the 
names  Wallace,  Clarence,  Edward  V.  and  Rich- 
ard, Katharine  and  Raleigh  stretch  to  the  “crack 
of  doom.”  I entered  some  of  these  cells,  read 
the  names,  inscriptions  and  verses  on  the  wall 
and  thanked  God  I was  a free  American.  The 
guide  led  me  to  the  Traitors’  gate  by  the  river 
with  memories  of  Sir  Thomas  More  and  Anne 
Boleyn,  whom  Henry  VIII.  killed  that  he 
might  marry  Jane  Seymour.  Then  I wandered 
to  the  armory  which  had  been  a royal 
residence  in  Elizabeth’s  time,  but  was  now  filled 
with  arms  enough  to  fit  an  army  and  with  tro- 
phies from  the  world  over  where  British  valor 
had  won ; afterwards  to  the  treasury  room  with 
crowns,  jewels  and  royal  insignia  and  dining- 
room outfits  of  gold.  These  are  all  guarded  by 
the  big  “beef  eaters” — they  looked  watchful  and 
worshipful. 

The  Bank  of  England  looks  like  a Gibraltar, 
stone,  massive,  one-storied,  windowless,  and 
covers  four  acres.  It  has  been  compared  to  the 
“central  dynamo  of  the  financial  world;”  that 


3i6 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


sounds  well,  and  yet  nations  sometimes  go  down 
the  financial  toboggan  slide  of  supremacy. 
American  money  and  credit  are  pretty  good 
here.  We  have  something  to  say  about  iron, 
steel,  tin,  tools,  ships  and  electric  traction.  Think 
of  it!  John  Bull  looking  at  an  Elgin  watch  early 
in  the  morning,  shaving  with  Yankee  soap,  eat- 
ing bread  made  of  Minneapolis  flour,  reading  a 
paper  printed  on  an  American  machine,  working 
before  a Michigan-made  desk,  smoking  Virginia 
cheroots,  drinking  an  American  cocktail,  read- 
ing an  American  book  or  attending  a musical 
concert  where  Nordica  is  the  star. 

It  is  only  natural  that  an  Englishman  should 
believe  there  is  nothing  above  him  and  that 
other  nations  need  heaven  as  the  only  thing 
which  can  console  them  for  not  being  born  Eng- 
lishmen. This  satisfied  and  stolid  manner  has 
led  to  cutting  cartoon  and  criticism.  Brunetiere, 
the  French  critic,  says:  “The  dazzling  fact  of 

America’s  history  in  the  nineteenth  century  is 
the  continuous  progress  of  the  Democratic  ideal, 
and  this  ideal  is  the  contradiction  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  ideal.”  Lawrence  Sterne  said  that  an 
Englishman  did  not  know  whether  to  take  or 
reject  the  “sweet  or  sour”  of  a compliment,  while 
our  inimitable  Mr.  Dooley  affirms  that  in  an 
American  joke  you  laugh  just  after  the  point  if 


LONDON  AND  ITS  SIGHTS. 


317 


at  all,  but  in  the  English  you  laugh  either  before 
the  point  or  after  the  decease  of  the  joker. 

Be  this  and  more,  as  it  may,  the  English  have 
fine  traits  in  the  fibre  of  their  individual  and 
national  life;  home  is  the  Englishman’s  castle 
on  the  husband’s  part,  and  the  good  wife  makes 
it  the  conservatory  of  the  beautiful.  Their  boys 
and  girls  are  loving  and  obedient,  and  with  sim- 
ple food,  pleasures,  and  exercise,  make  noble 
men  and  women;  their  hospitality  is  proverbial 
and  when  you  are  invited  to  it  it  means  much. 

I think  it  was  Mr.  Smelfungus  who  called  the 
Pantheon  a “Huge  cockpit ;”  in  no  such  spirit 
have  I recorded  my  impressoin  of  London  which 
I greatly  admire  for  its  government,  streets, 
spacious  parks,  wonderful  museums,  historic  and 
literary  memory.  We  Americans  have  many 
points  in  common  with  our  British  relatives  in 
respect  to  business,  education  and  religion ; we 
look  much  alike,  talk  the  same  language  and 
sing  the  same  national  air.  I have  seen  the  Lon- 
don John  Bull.  In  appearance  he  is  more  than 
a sturdy,  fat  fellow  with  round  hat,  leather 
breeches  and  red  waistcoat;  in  character  he  is 
more  than  pipe  and  tankard,  guineas  and  growls, 
protecting  or  patronizing  airs;  he  is  well  com- 
pared to  his  old  oak  staff  “rough  outside  and 
sound  within.” 


318 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

HISTORIC  SPOTS  OF  ENGLAND. 

We  started  out  with  a swinging  tallyho  that 
shook  us  up  like  dice  in  a box.  We  had  four 
good  English  horses,  a horn  blowing  footman 
to  toot  asthmatic  echoes  and  a driver  who  knew 
how  to  size  up  his  passengers.  As  usual  I 
found  it  paid  to  be  on  good  terms  and  make 
friends  with  the  coachman.  It  was  a jolly  party 
of  six.  Months  of  travel  had  jolted  them  into  a 
social  disposition. 

Gulliver’s  account  of  his  “Travels”  shows  a 
tendency  to  exaggerated  statement,  but  if  Mr. 
G.  had  been  with  us  he  couldn’t  have  said  too 
much  for  it  was  a Mark  Tapley  crowd. 

Paris  is  not  France  and  London  is  not  Eng- 
land; from  the  rush  of  the  city  we  came  to  the 
repose  of  the  country;  if  London  had  been  an 
open  book  of  history  and  literature,  the  country 
was  a scenic  panaroma.  For  a week  we  saw 
vine-clad  cottages  and  little  inns  with  pretty 
milk  and  bar-maids;  here  cattle  in  the  greenest 
of  pastures  and  there  ivy  clad  churches  and  tow- 
ers; on  all  sides  hawthorn  hedges,  flower  gar- 
dens, corn  fields,  oaks  and  elms  fresh  and  green. 
Now  at  last  I learned  the  meaning  of  England’s 
raw  fog  and  mist  and  what  they  were  good  for. 


HISTORIC  SPOTS  OF  ENGLAND. 


3i9 


Windsor  is  twenty-six  miles  from  London;  I 
enjoyed  this  old  town  with  its  “Garter’s  Inn” 
where  old  Jack  Falstaff  used  to  jolly  the  “Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor.”  There  is  a royal  forest  of 
kingly  oaks,  and  a “Keep,”  where  the  youthful 
James  I.  was  imprisoned  during  which  time  he 
wrote,  “King’s  Ouair,”  and  made  love  over  the 
garden  wall  to  the  girl  he  afterwards  married 
when  set  free.  But  the  main  thing  is  the  castle, 
that  residence  of  royalty  situated  on  the  big 
mound  where  the  Round  Tower  stands.  This 
was  the  place  where  King  Arthur  and  his  pals 
used  to  sit  up  nights  and  booze  the  happy  hours 
away.  St.  George’s  Chapel  invited  us  with  its 
royal  mausoleum,  its  famous  wrought  iron  work 
and  library  with  manuscripts  by  Da  Vinci  and 
historic  portraits  by  Holbein.  “Wolsey’s  Tomb 
House”  is  a sad  commentary  on  human  great- 
ness. The  poor  cardinal  was  turned  down  in  his 
life,  and  the  fine  tomb  he  made  for  the  repose 
of  his  bones  had  the  bronze  torn  off  and  was 
looted  and  sold  by  the  commonwealth;  even  the 
naked  black  marble  was  removed  to  St.  Paul’s 
as  a monument  for  Nelson’s  grave;  a case  of 
“Robbing  Peter  to  pay  Paul.” 

A hungry  crowd  of  us  rode  a mile  and  crossed 
the  bridge  to  Eton,  where  classic  and  practical 
knowledge  is  dished  out  to  boys  British  born  or 


320 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


subjects.  Lamb  has  told  us  of  this  school  in  his 
quaint  essay.  Lamb,  to  use  a mixed  figure,  was 
a rare  bird ; his  delicate  feeling,  humor  and 
quaintness  stamp  him  as  one  of  England’s  most 
delightful  essayists. 

Now  we  canter  to  Canterbury.  Our  coach 
was  like  a shuttle  weaving  green  grass  and  blue 
sky  with  strands  of  sunshine  into  a ribbon  and 
laying  it  along  the  fine  roads  over  which  we 
traveled.  The  city  is  on  an  old  Roman  site;  his- 
toric for  its  monastery  of  St.  Augustine,  schools, 
cathedral  where  Thomas  a’Becket  was  martyred, 
and  his  miracle-working  grave.  This  was  the 
town,  I think,  where  Watt  Tyler  rose  up  and 
made  a center  rush ; best  of  all  known  as  the 
place  where  Chaucer  tells  his  “Tales”  of  the 
fashionable  and  pious  people  who  came  here  on 
a pilgrimage;  his  stories  are  daguerreotypes  of 
the  society  of  his  day. 

A ride  through  hills,  watered  valleys  and 
'groves  brings  us  to  Oxford,  the  center  of  educa- 
tion. I had  visited  other  temples  of  learning, 
notably  the  Little  Red  School  House  of  America, 
Heliopolis  in  Egypt, and  Plato’s  academy  in  Ath- 
ens, but  here  I was  all  surrounded  like  “o”  in 
Oxford  itself.  I think  I counted  two  dozen 
colleges  and  several  ladies’  seminaries.  For  a 
number  of  centuries  it  has  been  a garden  of  wis- 


HISTORIC  SPOTS  OF  ENGLAND. 


321 


dom  where  human  bees  have  hived  its  sweets. 
The  surroundings  and  atmosphere  are  of  men 
who  put  genius  above  gold  and  felt  there  was 
something  bigger  in  this  world  that  a large 
bank  account.  Of  interest  is  the  famed  Bodlein 
library,  dating  from  1602  with  a donated  copy  of 
every  book  printed  in  the  kingdom.  I think  this 
is  a good  way  to  collect  a library.  The  Claren- 
don press  is  an  imprimatur  to  many  of  our 
books.  A building  of  great  interest  contains 
sketches  of  Angelo  and  Raphael,  a manuscript 
of  Virgil,  the  first  Mainz  Bible  and  an  Egyptian 
edition  of  Plato.  As  a relief  to  all  this  classic 
lore  I recalled  “Folly  Bridge,”  saw  the  site 
where  King  Alfred  lived  a thousand  years  ago, 
and  laughed  at  the  thought  of  Crown  Inn,  where 
Shakespeare  used  to  stop  on  his  way  to  London, 
having  left  his  dear  Ann  Hathaway  at  home  with 
the  children. 

We  arrived  at  Stratford  the  literary  Mecca  of 
the  world’s  pilgrimage  on  a rainy  day,  but  it  was 
suggestive  of  the  tears  of  joy  which  millions 
shed  on  Shakespeare’s  grave  to  keep  his  mem- 
ory green.  We  put  up  at  the  Red  Horse  hotel, 
where  Irving  wrote  his  suggestive  sketch.  Af- 
ter a big  dinner  we  viewed  Child’s  American 
memorial  fountain  with  its  Gothic  tower  and 
clock,  then  strolled  across  the  fields  to  Ann 


2,22 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


Hathaway’s  cottage  to  see  where  Shakespeare 
had  played  Romeo  to  the  original  Juliet.  The 
Memorial  library  is  filled  with  thousands  of  vol- 
umes of  the  dramatist  and  his  commentators, 
and  there  is  a fine  theater  auditorium  where  his 
plays  are  yearly  acted.  Of  course,  we  went  to 
his  humble  home  with  its  low-ceiling  room  all 
scribbled  over  with  autographs  of  Byron,  Dick- 
ens, Scott  and  some  other  less  illustrious  people. 
At  his  school  the  guide  pointed  out  the  place 
where  Shakespeare  used  to  sit,  where  he  studied 
and  where  he  was  flogged.  One  of  the  most  in- 
teresting points  was  Trinity  church,  by  clear- 
flowing  Avon.  It  made  a pretty  picture,  with 
its  old  elms,  gray  tombstones  and  half-faded  in- 
scriptions. I slowly  entered  the  building, 
walked  down  its  cross-formed  aisles,  which  the 
sexton  told  me  inclined  at  an  angle  to  “represent 
the  bended  head  of  the  Saviour.”  I admired  the 
memorial  windows,  and  like  steel  to  a magnet, 
was  drawn  to  Shakespeare’s  bust  and  the  slab 
beneath,  with  its  quaint  inscription  and  request 
for  rest,  which  every  “good  friend”  continues  to 
respect  for  his  and  “Jesus’  sake.” 

Who  was  Shakespeare,  anyhow?  He  has 
been  dead  so  long  he  cannot  speak  for  himself, 
and  various  answers  have  been  given.  Some 
think  he  was  a combination  of  boyish  poetry  and 


HISTORIC  SPOTS  OF  ENGLAND. 


323 


passion,  prose  and  poaching;  others  hold  he  was 
a mad  genius  who  married  his  wife  by  a kind  of 
poet’s  license,  and  resembled  Horace  Greeley  in 
clothes  and  penmanship;  others  maintain  him 
to  be  the  myriad-minded  man  who  “possessed  a 
capacity  for  universal  knowledge  without  the 
universal  experience.”  Ignatius  Donnelly 
thought  that  Bacon  wrote  Shakespeare,  while  a 
recent  writer  declared  that  Shakespeare  wrote 
Bacon,  and  there  it  is.  Well,  we  have  the  im- 
mortal works.  How  much  was  called  out  of 
night  to  everlasting  day!  The  world  has  set  up 
a tablet  in  its  heart  and  written  thereon  the  trib- 
ute of  love  and  respect. 

Stoke-Pogis  is  a prosy  place  but  immortally 
renowned  on  account  of  Gray  and  his  “Elegy.” 
I saw  the  writer’s  cottage  with  its  flowers  and 
foliage.  I wandered  to  the  church  with  its  “ivy- 
mantled  tower,”  and  looked  at  the  grave  beneath 
the  Oriel  window.  He  was  a poet  who  more 
than  the  warrior  Wellington  left  a deathless  fame 
in  hearts  by  verses  whose  sentiment  will  con- 
tinue to  sing  through  all  eternity.  Seven  years 
is  a pretty  long  time  to  work  off  and  on  on  one 
poem,  but  he  did  and  the  end  justifies  the  means. 
I wonder  if  seven  times  seven  would  enable  an- 
other man  to  write  its  equal? 

Warwick  is  eight  miles  from  Stratford  and 


324 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


the  road  which  had  led  through  pretty  scenery  at 
last  came  to  bedrock,  covered  with  ivy  and  trees. 
In  imagination  the  old  Knights  and  their  Ladies 
once  more  came  out  to  meet  us  and  stood  and 
sat  beside  us.  Here  are  towers  of  Caesar,  and 
the  gateways  of  Guy  and  Sundial.  The  cedars 
of  Lebanon,  which  you  see,  are  grown  from 
seed  which  the  brave  earl  brought  from 
Palestine.  The  castle  looks  bold  and  frowning 
as  William  the  Conquerer  who  stopped  here  on 
his  first  campaign.  Windsor  castle  is  a fine  feu- 
dal mansion;  its  reception  room  is  decorated 
with  antlers,  axes  and  armor ; its  drawing  room 
is  filled  with  bronzes,  mosaics  and  historic  paint- 
ings. These  were  all  of  interest  to  me  but  I had 
a woman’s  curiosity  to  see  Beauchamp  chapel  of 
stone,  oak,  stained  glass,  and  its  armor-clad 
sculptured  dead.  Here  continue  to  lie  the  re- 
mains of  Robert  Dudley,  earl  of  Leicester,  that 
admirer  of  women  who  was  Queen  Elizabeth’s 
favorite.  She  thought  so  much  of  him  that  she 
gave  him  Kenilworth  castle  for  a Christmas  gift. 
The  earl  spent  barrels  of  money  on  it,  had  it 
guarded  by  thousands  of  soldiers,  and  ran  a 
lusher  banquet  hall  which  was  the  scene  of  many 
a revel.  It  was  presto  change  when  Cromwell 
came  and  knocked  it  into  a cocked  hat.  Today 
it  is  a beautiful  ivy-covered  red  sandstone  ruin. 


HISTORIC  SPOTS  OF  ENGLAND.  325 


Sir  Walter  Scott  visited  it,  took  notes  and  gave 
us  his  Kenilworth.  How  the  vision  of  the  past 
rises  at  the  pen  of  this  Wizard  of  the  North. 
The  ruins  are  as  empty  as  a church  contribution 
box,  but  he  has  made  them  full  of  interest. 

Chester:  “Charge,  Chester,  charge !”  and  you 
may  believe  they  did,  for  it  was  Derby  Day  and 
an  American  horse  had  won  the  race.  An  Eng- 
lishman wanted  to  bet  with  me.  I told  him  it 
was  against  the  ethics  of  my  profession.  He 
begged  my  “pawdon,”  and  said  that  he  would 
give  half  of  what  he  won  to  the  collection  tha 
following  Sunday.  I’m  sure  he  lost. 

Chester  is  an  old  Roman  town  on  the  river 
Dee.  There  are  two  miles  of  circular  stone 
walls,  forty  feet  high  in  places,  and  wide  enough 
for  a promenade.  Briton,  Saxon  and  Dane  have 
in  turn  occupied  this  place.  You  find  good 
old  timber  houses  which  have  come  down  from 
the  seventeenth  century,  while  some  modern 
buildings  are  made  to  imitate  them  in  their  crazy 
looking  style.  There  is  a curious  covered  side- 
walk following  the  old  Roman  thoroughfare  and 
four  streets  at  right  angles,  making  roads  of  con- 
tinuous galleries  over  and  under  which  the  lean- 
ing houses  line  the  streets.  Antiquarians  have 
found  many  coins,  altars  and  Roman  inscrip- 
tions. On  a spot  called  the  “Wishing  Steps”  I 


326  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


loitered  and  lounged  wishing  that  I could  “strike 
it  rich.” 

At  last  we  reached  Birkenhead  on  the  Mersey 
river,  opposite  Liverpool.  It  has  mammoth 
floating  docks  and  big  ferries.  There  was 
something  that  struck  me  more  forcibly  than  all 
this  and  that  was  the  first  good  English  argu- 
ment I had  heard  for  the  Boer  war.  There  were 
a lot  of  lazy  men  standing  around  to  whom  an 
old  lady  said,  “The  war  in  Africa  would  be  a 
good  thing  if  you  could  just  be  sent  over  there 
and  do  something.” 

Liverpool  at  last,  or  Whirlpool,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  night,  and  Hotel  Adelphi  was  a friend  in 
need  and  deed.  Next  morning  we  met  some  of 
the  party  whom  we  had  been  separated  from  for 
weeks.  After  a breakfast  washed  down  by  a 
cup  of  English  tea  we  drove  through  shaded 
boulevards  to  Princes’  park.  The  most  won- 
derful docks  in  the  world  line  the  shore  for  a dis- 
tance of  seven  miles.  We  had  time  to  look  in 
the  Old  Town  Hall,  St.  George’s  hall,  built  in 
the  form  of  a Greek  temple,  and  to  attend  the 
Walker  gallery^  filled  with  art  treasures  and 
where,  at  this  time,  Mtinckacksy’s  “Ecce  Homo” 
was  on  exhibition.  The  “Grand  Old  Man”  was 
born  in  this  town,  and  our  distinguished  novel- 
ist, Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  was  United  States 


GOOD  OLD  YANKEELAND. 


327 


consul  here  from  ’53  to  ’57.  We  took  pride  in 
this  and  wrote  our  name  in  a black  and  not  Scar- 
let Letter. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

GOOD  OLD  YANKEELAND. 

I had  planned  a call  at  Blarney  Castle  and  a 
visit  to  an  old  friend  in  Edinburgh,  but  it  was 
too  late.  Time,  tide  and  ship  wait  for  no  man, 
and  I consoled  myself  by  saying  Ireland  and 
Scotland  were  near  by  and  I could  run  over 
there  any  time. 

It  was  Thursday,  May  10,  and  we  were  to 
leave  Old  England  on  the  New  England.  The 
dock  was  filled  with  people,  and  we  were  glad  to 
start  for  home. 

Fifty  little  orphans  in  line  started  down  the 
gang-plank,  one  fell  down  and  then  there  were 
forty-nine  on  top  of  him,  but  I rescued  him  and 
laughter  filled  the  dimpled  faces  which  had  been 
full  of  tears. 

All  ashore,  a signal,  a rush  of  steam,  and  we 
were  off.  As  the  city  and  shore  disappeared, 
my  eyes  splashed  with  water  salter  than  the  sea, 
and  in  the  spirit  of  Charles  Dickens,  with  the 


328  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


words  of  his  Tiny  Tim,  I said,  “God  bless  us  all 
every  one.” 

After  dinner  that  night  I watched  the  steerage 
passengers  fiddle  and  dance  and  knew  that  joy 
was  no  respecter  of  persons.  Later  in  the  grand 
salon,  after  promenade,  music  and  talk,  a lady 
passenger  drank  the  toast,  “Bon  Voyage,”  in  a 
glass  of  hot  lemonade,  which  shivered  in  her 
hands  and  spattered  over  all.  She  laughed  and 
said  it  was  a good  sign,  but  I was  a little  skep- 
tical, so  I went  to  my  room,  read  “Double 
Thread,”  and  prepared  for  rough  weather  by 
sewing  buttons  on  my  storm  coat  and  pants. 
This  done  I stuck  the  needle  into  my  chum,  Pro- 
fessor P.,  who  was  an  organist  at  home,  and  lay 
snoring  in  a way  equal  to  three  reed  stops  plus 
his  mouth  for  a trombone. 

Next  morning  we  anchored  at  Queenstown 
and,  begorry,  the  auld  Emerald  isle  was  just  be- 
fore us.  We  didn’t  land  but  some  of  the  natives 
boarded  our  ship  and  sold  us  beads,  lace  and 
black  thorn  canes.  These  salesmen  were  jolly 
Irish  beggars  and  the  women  recalled  Moore’s 
lines:  “On  she  went  and  her  maiden  smile  in 

safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  isle.” 

Life  on  the  ocean  wave  is  calm  and  restful. 
Every  one  wears  easy  clothes  and  manners.  You 
eat,  drink,  doze,  read,  chat,  promenade,  play  po- 


GOOD  OLD  YANKEELAND. 


329 


ker,  ring-toss  or  shuffle  board,  recount  expe- 
riences or  swap  stories.  One  evening  I played 
the  Wedding  March  for  a couple  who  had  cele- 
brated their  anniversary  on  board.  Later  I went 
to  an  orphans’  concert  in  the  aft  cabin  where 
men  and  women  played  and  sang  in  all  keys  and 
none.  It  seems  I was  somewhat  of  a prophet, 
for  one  morning  I began  to  feel  a little  “home- 
sick” and  came  on  deck  without  a shave  or  a 
necktie.  I would  have  gone  by  land  if  I could, 
but  “Mr.  Captain  would  not  stop  the  boat  and  let 
me  off  and  walk.”  Sunday  I was  convalescent 
and  preached  from  the  Traveler’s  Psalm,  “He 
maketh  the  storm  a calm  so  that  the  waves  there- 
of are  still;  then  are  they  glad  because  they  be 
quiet.” 

It  was  “good”  Friday  indeed  when  the  pilot 
whom  we  had  picked  up  brought  us  into  the 
harbor.  Christopher  C.  guessed  his  way  across 
the  ocean  but  we  came  straight  as  a Kentucky 
colonel  to  a Louisville  bar.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  the  greatest  genii  in  the  Arabian  Nights 
was  the  steam  that  came  out  of  the  little  bottle 
and  took  shape.  We  slowed  up  in  the  bay  be- 
cause of  the  fog.  Later  the  wharf  appeared  and 
in  my  attempts  to  attract  the  attention  of  a 
friend,  I slipped  and  fell  on  the  wet  boards  but 
the  old  flag  that  I carried  didn’t  mop  the  deck. 


330 


TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 


No  matter  what  your  religion  or  politics  may 
be  you  are  always  a free-trader  when  you  come 
to  shore.  A government  official  was  on  to  his 
job  and  mine.  I offered  him  good  advice  and 
assistance  which  he  ignored  politely,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  play  Vesuvius  with  my  picked  up  plun- 
der. I had  several  narrow  escapes,  but  he  let 
me  off  free.  He  was  a gentleman.  Home 
again!  I was  so  intoxicated  with  its  atmosphere 
and  patriotism  that  I didn’t  know  whether  I 
walked  or  flew  over  Boston  Common  and  Bunk- 
er Hill  monument.  My  relative,  “Little  Nell,” 
tried  to  sober  me  but  I only  subsided  when  I 
saw  a burly  policeman  who  eyed  me  suspiciously 
and  acted  as  if  he  would  like  to  run  me  in. 

I came  back  to  America  with  a conviction 
which  I would  write  in  capital  letters:  That 

there  is  no  land  in  all  the  world  like  ours  in  re- 
spect to  its  domain,  history  and  citizenship ; that 
for  unity,  wages,  education  and  religion,  we 
are  “foremost  in  the  files  of  time.”  I had  rather 
be  born  poor  here  than  a prince  anywhere  else. 

Travel  had  always  been  a fruit  of  “restless 
poison”  to  my  blood,  whether  I was  in  the  gla- 
ciers of  Alaska,  palms  of  Mexico,  granite  of 
Massachusetts  or  gold  of  California.  I believe 
man  was  made  to  live  a great  while  in  a little 


GOOD  OLD  YANKEELAND. 


33i 


while  if  he  only  knew  how,  and  no  man  can  travel 
more  and  know  less  than  he  did  before. 

It  is  one  thing  to  read,  hear  and  see  pictures 
of  places,  it  is  another  to  realize  their  history, 
and  be  with  Virgil’s  hero  a part  of  what  you 
have  seen.  Tennyson  told  Bayard  Taylor,  “A 
book  of  travels  may  be  so  written  that  it  shall  be 
as  immortal  as  a great  poem.” 

The  successful  tourist  should  know  how  to  see, 
listen  and  describe.  I have  tried  to  do  all  three, 
with  what  success  or  failure  my  readers  now 
know.  I have  learned  some  things ; this  is  a big 
world  and  at  best  one’s  soul  only  dips  its  wings 
into  the  ocean  of  God’s  beauty.  All  the  violets 
do  not  grow  in  one  place  and  God’s  untranslated 
gospel  of  love  is  found  everywhere.  Go  where 
you  may,  you  will  always  find  eyes  which  flash 
forth  intelligence  and  patriotism. 

I may  forget  all  the  trip  cost,  of  money,  time, 
energy,  hardship  and  patience,  but  I know  that 
in  spite  of  who,  what  and  where  I may  be,  Mem- 
ory “will  bring  to  mind  the  light  of  other  days 
around  me;”  Egypt  with  its  antiquity;  Palestine 
with  its  sanctity ; Asia  with  its  luxury ; Greece 
with  its  beauty;  Pompeii  with  its  desolation;  Ita- 
ly with  its  art;  Switzerland  with  its  scenery;  Ger- 
many with  its  music;  Holland  and  Belgium  with 
their  heroism;  France  with  its  beauty;  England 


332  TRACKS  OF  A TENDERFOOT. 

with  its  history.  Of  these  places  and  peoples 
visited  I feel : 

Oh,  the  years  I lost  before  I knew  you,  Love! 

Oh,  the  hills  I climbed  and  came  not  to  you,  Love! 
Ah,  who  shall  render  unto  us  to  make  us  glad, 

The  things  which  for  and  of  each  other’s  sake 
We  might  have  had  ? 


